Personal Reasons
by MadMelodie
Summary: A Rorschach story, exploring the meaning of two words in the GN. From 1961 through 1975. Story in three parts. Comic canon. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Criticisms are totally welcome. I'm not a professional writer. I do know the canon though, and by god, I am trying to treat it with the respect it deserves.

Also, please keep in mind several things:

1.) This is not set in the modern day. The attitudes of people are NOT the same as they are today. While it may seem weird or unthinkable, the whole 'honor your mother and father' thing was very very important to Christians, especially Catholics.

2.) There's *gasp* racism in here. It's not the focus of the piece, but again, it's a period piece.

3.) I tend to be heavy on description and internal dialogue. I'm trying to keep things pared down to what I think is necessary for the story only though, so if you see something you don't understand or think shouldn't be in there, tell me. I won't yell and scream and throw a tantrum-I want to keep things as short as I can, otherwise, this will be fifty thousand words easily. Urgh on that!

4.) Rorschach, or should I say Walter, may seem a bit OOC. Again, this is MY take on a certain... bit of the book, which will come clear later on. We don't have a clear view on how Walter actually thought or felt, just that he seemed more or less normal, and talked in complete sentences, and didn't like being around women. His misogyny didn't really come into the forefront until after he became Rorschach... or so I think. But it was always there. We just don't know for sure, really, but he did have a certain view of what was right and what was wrong. I'll guarantee that ugly SOB never had a date though. :P

5.) I'm not QUITE sure how the sweat shops would work, and I'm not quite sure on what sort of "garment shop" Walter worked at. I did what research I could (not going to devote days to a fanfic piece, sorry) and came up with something that seemed reasonable to me.

6.) This deals with very adult material. Kids probably shouldn't be reading some of it.

With that said, enjoy.

* * *

It was hot and dirty in 1961. August, always a hot month, seemed particularly unbearable in the shop. Alana didn't want to work there, but she hadn't much of a choice. Times were tough, and this was the only job she could get, being just one in the nameless masses. At sixteen, she lied about her age to get in, but the boss didn't care too much. Her fingers were dextrous and skilled in needlepoint for the fine detail work on dresses.

She cherished her late mother's lessons in needlepoint. Her mother had died too soon, only a few months ago. Her father had taken it hard and began drinking. Soon, he was drinking down each paycheck, and as a result, Alana grew up too quickly. She took care of him as best she could, but she wasn't an adult, and not his wife. Too often, he stayed out at nights, doing lord knew what at the pubs and whorehouses.

Starting at the garment shop, she was nervous, but bobbed her head, saying 'Yes, sir' and 'Thank you, sir' at everything her boss said. The job seemed to be easy enough; all she was to do was embroidery, the faster the better. It wasn't so bad...but it was dreadfully hot. She had pinned her Irish red hair back into a sensible bun and wore a light dress and still she roasted. The bodies packed together, and the smell... it was enough to gag a horse. She smiled tremulously though, afraid of upsetting the boss, every time he looked at her. But the job was simple enough; no, she had no questions.

Alana was shown around by the other women-and it was all women who did the fine filigree work on the special order dresses, though there were plenty of men working here, out on the floor-and it was all simple enough. Someone would drop off a package of dresses-if they were working on the mass produced variety-or a single dress with instructions at her work station. She would do the work, and someone else would pick them up. The faster she could complete them, the more she would get paid as she was paid by the piece. Because of the intricacy of the work, in general, the commission was better than those out on the floor, but still nothing to write home about. As she settled in with a package of dresses, all the same design to be done on them, it got hotter and hotter. Sweat trickled down her back, making her dress itch. The work itself was a breeze, and she finished a design in fifteen minutes. The next, seventeen, and so on... until her fingers ached from repetition. It was awful, but at the end of the first day, the boss smiled at her and complimented her on her work. All of her pieces had stood up to inspection, and there were quite a few of them. The first day was probably the best one. The longer she worked there, the more her fingers and back ached, even after she got home to soak them in a bowl of hot water. She began to feel like an old woman, and it was only a week! The first paycheck she got, however, made her feel ten feet tall. Her father might be dropping the ball, but she would take care of both of them.

Alana floated home, throwing her coat down on the davenport as she entered the small apartment shared by her and her father. He was watching television, a televised fight. "Whars fer supper?" he drawled. Drunk already, but she paid it no never mind. "A bit of liver with onions, and potatoes," she replied, heading immediately into the kitchen.

"I'm sick o' liver," her father grumbled. "It's what we have," Alana replied, taking the pans out. Her father liked his meals prompt, and she hurried to get something cooking. "I can add a hamburger patty if you like."

"I doan want no hamburger," her father said from the doorway, lurching there as the alcohol was unsteadying him. He approached her and she deftly stepped away. Lately, he'd been looking at her in unseemly ways, and she hoped he'd just decide to go out. She was a decent Christian woman after all, and the things she'd heard on the streets...it was unthinkable.

He watched her as she cooked, and when she finally was able to shoo him out of the kitchen, she breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't until later when Patrick and his daughter were having dinner that it started again. It was just a look, left too long on her face, moving down. She wore demure clothing, though she could make much nicer, more ... modern clothes if she wanted. It made her uncomfortable, men staring. _Him_ staring...

The awkward dinner finished, and Alana got up to clear the table. Her father watched her as she busied herself with the dishes, only getting up to refresh his glass of whiskey. She hated it when he drank whiskey-beer seemed to mellow him out, but the whiskey-nights were when he stared at her. After she finished, she smiled pleasantly at him, forcing herself to see him as her father instead of some stranger drunk, and excused herself for bed. She always took a shower at night, and again in the morning, at least in the summer. It was too hot, and she always woke sweat soaked. The only fan in the house was in her father's room, which he sometimes carried out into the living room when he was watching the television. She dressed in her nightgown, cotton and rather heavy, but it made her feel safer, more like the little girl she used to be. It was a silly thought, but she couldn't imagine doing otherwise. Maria, her spic friend, said she sometimes slept naked, and that thought shocked Alana. Then again, the spics were all like that, and she bet Maria just said those sorts of things because it was daring. Alana wished she was that daring at times, but most of the time her sensibilities intervened. Besides, it wasn't Catholic to be daring; rather keep your head down and obey God and your parents. She soon fell into a light doze, thinking these thoughts.

Somewhere, a dog howled, but it was the shadow in her room which woke her. Alana sat up in bed, and wiped sleep from her eyes as the shadow lurched towards her. It was her father. "Father...?" It wasn't the first time he'd done this.

He sat down on the bed hard. Muffled sounds came from him, his hands over his face. He was crying, and mumbling to himself. Alana patted his back and rested her cheek on his shoulder. "It's alright," she said, trying to soothe him.

He wrapped his arms around her, and wept. She couldn't make out much, except her mother's name, and how much he missed her. "I can't.. raishe... I missh you, Bonnie..." She tried to comfort him as best she could, with soothing words and pats, and he nestled further in her embrace.

Wetness tickled along her collarbone, and she shivered, despite the heat. Her father's posture had changed, and the wetness she felt wasn't tears. Alana froze, feeling shadows shift and play in her mind as they did on the wall, flickering in the reflected neon light. A low sound escaped her throat; that was all she could manage to do to say no, or to even ask what he was doing. Some instinct in her knew what he was doing, and she couldn't wrap her mind around it. His grip changed and she seemed to shrink as he swelled.

The rest was darkness.

* * *

It was hot in the sweat shop, but that wasn't what gave Walter discomfort. The package he was carrying, the bundles of cloth made to look like a woman, a _pack_ of women, made his flesh crawl, but he'd be rid of it soon enough. Even as that thought crossed his mind, he approached the basket at the new girl's station. He dropped the sheaf of cloth in her basket. When he did so, she looked up and smiled briefly at him, just a flicker of her lips. The rest of her looked awful. Dark circles lined her eyes, making the normal brown color look almost black. Her hair was done in the usual bun, but sloppily; her clothing, dishelved. It was enough of a deviation even he noticed.

Noticed for a moment anyway, then it was back to work. Walter worked steadily, knowing enough to pace himself to make it through the day without being totally exhausted. It was easy enough, repetitive work, but during the summer in these conditions... exhausting. He hated the stink of the place, but he resolutely put it out of his mind. One task after another. It was necessary but distasteful work. He filled his mind with what he'd do afterwards. First, he'd go down to the gym. He liked it there. At twenty-one, he was in his prime. Fit and muscled, he kept in shape by boxing. There were a few fellows there whom he didn't mind being around so much. It was a rough comrarderie, and something he didn't have much of in his life: a feeling of belonging. Although he was short and seemingly small, the joes at the gym respected his ferocity in the ring. There was even some talk that maybe he should enlist in the minor leagues for boxing.

It was a pipe dream though, and not something he dwelled on too much. The surroundings of the boxing matches turned him off. The smoke, the booze, the noise, the crowds, the ... immorality. He didn't want to be a part of that. All of the fights were rumored to be fixed by the mob, and he'd never throw a fight. Sometimes, though, it was pleasant to think about it.

After that, with a pleasant ache in his limbs, he might walk by the library and make use of his library card. He didn't care for television- they were too expensive anyway-but books could take him anywhere. He most preferred nonfiction, but rarely he'd induldge in a modern detective novel, trying to figure out the whodunit. More often than not, he was right-the authors were usually transparant, and not very practical. His favorite, however, was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the famous Sherlock Holmes. Those mysteries, written so long ago in a more innocent age, drew him. The partnership between Holmes and Watson, going from case to case, fingering the guilty and the wicked, and casting them to jail. It was the closest thing to a fantasy he had since childhood, but again, not anything he dwelled on often. Most of the time, he read nonfiction...dry boring books most would call them, but a keen mind would serve him well, and it helped him escape from the drudgery of his daily life.

Before he knew it, the day was done. He shuffled over in line with the rest of the sheep, punched his card, and exited. By coincidence, he was right behind the new girl. He didn't notice though, until a couple of his coworkers caught his attention from behind.

"She's a fine piece, e'nt she?" one of them said, ribbing the other. Walter waited paitiently for the line to shuffle through to freedom.

"She looks all proper," the other replied.

"Nah, she's Irish, all of them are Catholic, y'know," the first replied.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"They don't make you wear rubbers," the first said with an air of authority around him. "They're all sluts." He elbowed the second one, "Didn't you ever hear anything about what goes on in Catholic schools?"

Walter frowned slightly at this patter, but the line was opening up as people walked outside. He was ten feet from freedom, if that. "No... we're Protestant." The second sounded confused, but intrigued. _All of them, filth,_ Walter thought, disgusted by the conversation. _Almost free._

"Trust me," the first continued, "if you want to get laid, get a Catholic girl." He nudged his buddy. "Ask her out. I bet she'll say yes."

"I don't know," the second muttered, but their opportunity was gone. She had been ahead of them, and was through the door before they into the warm summer afternoon. Walter moved away from them as soon as he could, the chatter fading into background noise. He walked at a brisk pace, making the conversation fade from his mind. The gym was ahead, that was what he should think about. _Ignore the sinners and the filth._ It wasn't any of his business how they lived, but he didn't want it to touch him. It was unclean to think about it. As he passed the bus stop, a flash of red from the corner of his eye and a sob as the girl cried her eyes out almost made him rethink his resolution for a second. But the gym was waiting.

* * *

Time passed, and things didn't get any better. She would _make_ them better. Alana didn't dwell on the darkness, and the things which happened therin. Instead, she pinned her hopes on the checks, squirreling money away when she could, hiding it from her father. As time went on, things only got worse when he first hit her for resisting, saying_ No_ in a wavering voice.

After that, hardly a day went by without at least a slap. She pretended it didn't happen. Even when faced with the mirror every day, she powdered her face as normal and exited, head held as high as she could manage. It wasn't her father who did that. It couldn't be. It was the shadows.

The funny thing was... no one noticed, or if they did, they pretended right along with her. How that happened she had no idea, but she was thankful for it. Why these things happened to her, she didn't know. She had a dim idea her father was a sick, sick man, but this was not the sort of thing people brought up in polite conversation. The situation was unbearable, but what else could she do? She couldn't live on her own, though, and while she had few friends, none of them could help support her either. Her only real hope was to marry out of the household...or save enough money to just up and leave. But then, what would happen to Patrick? It was a daughter's obligation to honor her parents. Her... father. And if anyone knew...

Those boys at work. Those men. They knew. They knew how dirty she was. She'd broken down that day at the bus stop, drawing sympathetic looks from the driver, and a few of the other passengers. They didn't ask questions. No one did. It wasn't their business. Everyone pretended along with her.

A few days later, and she was back to her old self on the outside. Inside, she ruthlessly squashed every memory of what had happened...at least until she was home again, and the shadows approached. Consequently, she spent as much time at work as she could, her two lives seperating as if cut by a scalpel. Work wasn't pleasant, but it was honest and pure. The less said about home, the better.

Once she was able to relax slightly while working and look around, there were a lot of people there, just as miserable as she was, yet they made the best of it. Resolute, she concentrated on work. As the weeks passed, she learned to pace herself rather than trying to finish everything as fast as she could. A few rejects because of sloppiness taught her it was better to be accurate rather than fast, but best to be both. The people around her were from all ethnicities, but they all blended in as the same after a while. She listened to the women chatter in their work area, talking about their families and their sons and their husbands. Alana smiled her smile, and tried to participate, relating stories about her mother. Mostly she stayed quiet, but enjoyed the talk. It was a soothing balm, achingly normal.

The only other person she saw on a regular basis (other than the payroll clerk as he handed out the checks) was the man who dropped off the parcels in the respective baskets, delivering the orders as the dresses came off the floor. He never looked at her. He never looked at the other women. He just did his job and that was all. He seemed the perfect robot, programmed to do one task and that was it. It was the blandness which made him noticeable to her. He stood out among the others, who tried to get along with each other. Even during breaks, he stayed apart from everyone, looking like a car parked in neutral. Some other guy clapped him on the back once, and the redhead flinched from the friendly contact. A mild look of distaste had crossed his face, there and gone in a blink. He had put it someplace else so swiftly no one else but her noticed.

When she was sporting a new bruise, even if it couldn't be seen, it was felt. The despair kept her on the edge of tears. Alana gripped her control with what strength she could, but some days it was so hard to stay neutral. To stay bland. That he could, and did, every day amazed her. She resolved to be like him: a robot. Just doing one task after another. And so she took to studying him.

Being naturally friendly, Alana couldn't help but to smile at him at first. She smiled at everyone, getting an answering one in return more often than not. It was habit more than anything else, something her mother had told her, to soften people with a smile. Heck, she used it on her father when she needed something, and sometimes it even worked. Even when people didn't smile back, it was hard to resist smiling at them. He never responded. Never looked at her.

She studied his face, the lankness of his expression. It wasn't tense. He was relaxed, or as much as he could be. The more she looked, the more positive she was that he didn't want to be here, but she was never able to pin it down. It was... bland. A blank slate. A still pond. Underneath the water though, she could sense something undefined, yet familiar. His eyes seemed empty, but not dead. He saw his surroundings, seemed alert most of the time. Unemotional was what he came across as. Once she thought she saw some gratitude in his eyes when the boss was talking to him, but she had been too far away to tell for certain. He was ugly as sin. Oh, his body was in good shape. Most of the women were envious of the men who could get away with wearing just an undershirt while they were working, so she couldn't help but to notice his muscles, but he was ugly. A face only a mother could love. _He must have some private hurt,_ she pondered. _Like me._ Most women would turn away from him, except for prostitutes. How awful it would be to have to pay for love, which surely must be his secret shame. Yet he never let it show. He brushed off his surroundings as if they didn't exist.

She emulated him, as best she could. She let her features relax, and emptied her eyes of everything. Feeling utterly silly, she practiced in the mirror, trying to erase all the knowledge in her eyes. She couldn't. It was there every time she looked, but less and less every day.

* * *

"You don't smile anymore," he said abruptly.

The girl looked up at him in some surprise, and Walter himself was surprised. However, in the weeks and months she had worked here, she had always smiled at him. It was a fragile thing, but she had always looked at him and smiled as the pieces of cloth were dropped off. It made him uncomfortable at first, wondering if she wanted ... _something_ from him. It made him think of his mother, and he got angry. Through years of practice at the home and later at work, he didn't show it, but inside he was seething. The feeling was an angry beast which demanded an outlet. He worked out extra heavily at the gym those early days, always thinking of his mother, beating out his aggression until the smile was out of his mind.

Then... sometime around November, the smile started to fade. It was never very bright to begin with, sometimes just a quirk of the lips, but it got smaller and smaller. His anger receded and he realized she was watching him. Studying. The why of it escaped him. He knew what he looked like. The girls from his youth and their taunts rang in his head still. He expected her to make the same remarks, and tensed every time he came near her. She never did though; barely spoke two words to him at all. Once he applied logic, he realized it wasn't that. She... was being friendly.

That was something he had to turn over in his mind a few times, examining it from every angle. No woman had ever just been friendly, except for a couple of teachers who had felt sorry for him. He didn't need their pity. Didn't want it. The look in her eyes wasn't pity though, but envy, and that threw everything off. Why should she be envious of _him?_ It made no sense. It was a puzzle, and as much as he hated to admit it, he wanted to solve it. Not because he cared for her-far from-but because it was there, and it was something to distract him from work. It wasn't the best distraction, but someone envying him... _anyone_ envying him, was mind boggling.

"I...I'm sorry, sir, I need to get back to work." And she bent back to work, but he could sense she had wanted to say something else. Interesting. Walter went about his duties, turning the problem over in his head. His lip curled up in a sneer as he thought about it-she was Catholic, those others had said. All women were like that though; it didn't matter what religion they were. Time passed slowly that day for him, and each time he passed near delivering a parcel or even just crossing the room, he saw her watching him, like a freak. _She's like the others,_ he thought. She wasn't being friendly. She was trying to corrupt him.

It was getting intolerable. Walter missed those smiles-it was rare when he saw one just for him, being polite or not-but likely it was because of some ulterior motive. Months had gone by since she started; she was just setting him up for something. No, she couldn't be; she didn't even know him, and she didn't notice him outside of work anyway. Yes, there had to be a reason. Agitated, he decided to see what kind of woman she was-though he knew already. He just needed proof, then he could set himself at ease again. He punched out, but he lingered behind, waiting in the shadow of the building for her to walk out. He followed a good ways behind. If nothing else, following her was a good test of his shadowing skills. Instead of going to the bus stop, she walked past, her footsteps dragging. He watched her posture slump with each pace, until her shoulders were hunched together.

They arrived, her before him of course, at a shabby apartment building not unlike his own. She entered, and he watched for lights to come on. After a few minutes, he was not disappointed. Shadows moved behind the curtains, back and forth. Other lights came on, went off. Dogs barked. Cars passed. Walter watched, not quite sure he was watching the right window, but pretty sure. It would be better if he climbed on the fire escape, but it was too early in the evening. People would notice.

"This is useless," he chided himself, muttering. Time passed.

A stray breeze lifted the curtains for a moment, showing a glimpse of red, a head bent over the sink in concentration. She washed dishes, oblivious to his presence. A garbled shout may or may not have come from there, but her head jerked up, and he was back to watching shadows. Another, larger, shadow entered. Her shadow shifted, turning, until he could see her back when the wind lifted the curtains again for a brief second. A sharp, fast movement and her shadow cringed.

"Hurm," he murmured, thoughts racing. Another movement. And another. Walter left.

She wasn't at work the next day.

* * *

The day after had been nothing but pain. Alana'd blacked out during. She didn't know what set him off. It didn't matter anymore. December had blown in yesterday with a vengeance. It seemed the wind howled her pain, but that was probably all just in her mind. The blood had rushed to her ears right away, and again after he boxed them. She didn't leave her bed the next day, except to crawl once to the bathroom to pee. The next day was better, and it was normally her day off. She was able to get to the shower and wash up, fearful of him entering any second. However, he seemed to be gone, and hadn't been back since the beating. For the life of her, she didn't know what she said to set him off. She'd talked about maybe getting a steak for dinner the next night, to celebrate the weekend. The next thing, bam. _What was so bad about steak?_ she wondered.

In the afternoon, she called her boss from a payphone. People stared at her. Alana ignored them as best she could. She explained she had an accident, and she was sorry she didn't call, and begged for her job. Her boss was no fool though. He knew. He told her her paycheck would be penalized, but that she would be needed back at work on Monday.

That taken care of, she went for a walk. She wandered by the park, up the street, not sure of where she was going. When she stopped in front of the police station, she knew. She wanted to turn him in. This had gone on for months now, this and the other. She started to walk away, then walked back, pacing almost across the street from the station. An internal dialogue consumed her.

_He's beating me._

_He's my father._

_He hurts me._

_Honor your mother and your father._

_He... does things._

_It's not fair._

_He's my father... he's not supposed to hurt me._

_He just misses my mother._

_I didn't do anything to deserve this._

_I love him._

_Please, please God._

_...please._

Alana couldn't. She had almost a hundred dollars saved. She could just move out, after a while. Get away. She'd have to. Walking stiffly away from the station, she stifled her tears. Moving out would have to do. She couldn't turn him in. She would just have to suffer through it.

On Monday, everyone pretended with her again. Eyes slid away from her blackened eyes and bandage on her cheek from where her skin had split. She left her hair down this time to hide some of it, and wanted to wear dark glasses, no matter how ludicrous they looked... except she needed to be able to see. She worked slowly that day, hiding behind her work.

"You don't smile." His voice. She jerked her head up, clenching her jaw. She was suddenly angry. Angry that he was so blank, angry that he was there, taunting her. What in the hell did she have to smile about? She was furious he was able to hide his secret self away and she had to wear hers on her face. All of that must have played across her face, her emotions spilling out for everyone to see.

His head canted ever so slightly to the side. "You should." And then he smiled. It wasn't much, and she might have imagined it, but the corners of his mouth turned up, just the tiniest bit. His eyes changed, echoing her pain, but at that point tears blurred her sight, and he walked away, having deposited his parcel. _Someone_ noticed. Someone _understood._

_

* * *

_

There was a shipment of cloth in May 1962 which fascinated Walter. It was part of a special order, which meant the bolt of cloth had to be special ordered. He was lucky enough to be the one who unpacked it, and delivered it to the seamstresses. It was beautiful. White and black, ever changing, but never mixing. It hypnotized him, and for the first time, he dallied at his work, not wanting to part with the beautiful fabric. It was something that seemed to click inside him, the thought of things being so clearly delineated. Black and white, no grey at all. It reminded him of simpler times.

Reluctantly, he went to the seamstresses. The redhead with no name who smiled at him (and did every time she saw him now after he said what he did), stood up to help him with the bundle. He motioned her away, but she blinked when seeing the cloth. "What's this?"

"A bolt for a special order," he replied. "It's pretty thin, maybe enough for two, three garments. At the most." He didn't mind her anymore, now that he knew the why of her, having solved the puzzle. The smiles didn't bother him at all. She was... pure. In a bad position, sure, but innocent enough. Life was hard, for everyone. It wasn't any of his business anyway, but he understood why he was drawn to her. It was an imperfect reflection, and it made it impossible to be totally aloof even though she was female.

"It's... beautiful," she murmured, running her hand over the fabric, changing the pattern in the cloth. "It's not mixing at all." She looked up, meeting his eyes for a second then looking away. She always did that. A trait of the abused. Walter knew it too well. _Weak,_ he thought. He didn't sneer at her though, since they were at work. He might not have anyway. The sneers were for the whores. "How do they do that?"

"Special fabric from Dr. Manhattan."

"Really?" Her eyes opened wide, looking at the fabric again. Dr. Manhattan still made people leery, and most were in awe of the hero. Walter shifted uncomfortably: they were drawing attention. "It's like... night and day." She pressed down on one of the dots, making a ring pattern for a moment as the black swirled away from the pressure. "Uhm, you better get going. I think Teresa's waiting for it." She stepped away quickly, which was fine by him. It was probably the longest conversation they'd ever had. No... it was the longest conversation they'd ever had, but he appreciated her point of view at least. He ran his hands over the fabric, watching the spots run. Black and white. Night and day. Right and wrong. Moral and immoral. He liked that.

* * *

"I don't know why you bother spending time with him," Janice said, blowing cigarette smoke over the street. It was November, and damn cold. The girls shivered outside, taking a quick break along with a small crowd of others. "I don't spend time with him," Alana replied, waving away Janice's smoke. "I'm just being polite." A pause, "I don't even know his name."

Janice took a drag off her cigarette and shook her head. "He watches you, you know. It's creepy. You should stop encouraging him."

"He's harmless," Alana replied, thinking that she'd prefer someone watching her than the alternative any day. At least the redhead didn't make catcalls or do anything untoward, and if he did watch her, she had yet to notice it. She knew he did already, but she never saw him watching her. Nothing creepy at all.

"Foo," her coworker replied. "Just wait until they find you in an alley somewhere." She glanced at her watch and tossed the cigarette out in the gutter, "Back to the grind."

The girls hurried inside with the other smokers, and went back to their stations. During the winter it wasn't so bad in the shop; pleasantly warm was how she would put it. She got herself situated back at her station, and there he was. Alana smiled, thinking about what Janice said. "Hi," she murmured, chickening out at the last second. _No, he's totally harmless. He's never even looked at me in a bad way!_

"You don't smell like smoke," he replied.

She blinked. "I don't smoke."

"Good." With that, he left. She rocked back in her chair and stared after him. That was the oddest exchange they'd had yet, leaving her with a lingering uneasy feeling. Was Janice right?

* * *

Summer again, and with summer the heat. It broiled on the streets, and roasted inside. During the evenings it was alright though, and Walter preferred to take a walk in the later hours, when it was cooling off nicely. It was a good end to the day. Just because it took him by her house didn't mean anything. It was on his way, a nice circular route. At the height of his walk though, he was surprised to find her outside. She was never outside when evening fell, save in the winter months when it was unavoidable as the factory closed its doors well after dark. He approved of that; only whores were to be found on the streets at night. She was crying on the steps, face held in her hands, bawling for all the world to see. Disgusting.

He slowed his pace and stopped across the street, his usual spot. Her shoulders shook, and she gasped in noisy breaths he could hear from where he stood. She had threatened tears before-awful, wet, noisy things-but had never cried that he ever saw. He looked up at the windows of her apartment which she shared with her father, and saw the dim light of the television on. He was home, and likely drunk. Walter didn't see much of her personal life-that would have been prying-but he saw enough to know it mirrored his in eerie ways. How alone he had been. How afraid. How angry.

What would he have done if someone had held a hand out to him? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He wanted to be left alone; that was his only goal. That he chose to include her in some private ritual was one thing. To interfere with her life, even minutely, would be inviting something else. He wasn't ready for that. He would never be ready for that. But if he could invite anyone, it would probably be her, being as his dad was never going to come back for him, or find him now. For the first time, he truly wanted to ask more. The brief exchanges were already too much at times, but he was satisfied that she wasn't like his mother. Well, he was pretty sure...she could always be lying.

Wasn't lying now, that was for certain: there was no one to see the lie. That thought drove him over the edge, and down the curb, across the street. She was so absorbed in her weeping, she didn't notice him at all. He could feel the raw pain from her clearly. Something was seriously wrong. "Hello," he said mildly, the only way he spoke.

Her head jerked up in surprised and she recoiled away from him. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks soaked with tears. He recoiled away from her. This was a mistake.

"Oh!" was her exclamation. Then after he took a step away, poised to flee, "It's, y-you." She relaxed slightly, her nose a mess. She snorted unladylike into a handkerchief.

"What's wrong?" It was getting too involved, and he wanted to flee. He didn't. The right thing to do would be to comfort her, but Walter couldn't quite do that. He could, however, ask. She shook her head soundlessly, tears starting anew. Normal people would sit down next to her at this point. He couldn't do that. "It's not the end of the world," he said quietly. "Whatever it is."

Little by little she got herself under control until she chanced a look at him. He studied her. Her eyes warmed for a moment, and she shook her head, tears coming anew. "It is." A sneeze, and a wipe.

He had to think hard about what to say next. A warm feeling both familiar and unfamiliar to him had started to spread through his chest. He was angry. Not at her, though. The father. Someone should do something about that. She should do something about that. Weak... but the rebuke held no fire. She was a victim. What was happening was wrong, but it was normal. What happened behind locked doors stayed there. "You're strong," he said quietly. He knelt so they were on the same level. "I've watched you get through worse than this." There weren't any bruises, but they could be where he couldn't see.

"I ... don't think I can," she whispered. "Not this time."

He licked his lips, feeling antsy and anxious. Walter looked at her, catching her gaze with his and holding it, willing her to be strong and pure and innocent and not like his mother. "You don't deserve this," he said, his voice strong, though quiet, intensity from someplace deep inside him blazing through his words. I didn't deserve it either.

"I... don't have no place else to go," she whispered, looking down, then back up again. Her gaze wandered, but he was used to that. She tried to steady herself visibly, but it was no good. Whatever it was, shattered her; what he was seeing now were pieces being held together by force of will. "I need money for an apartment, and... I don't have family here, except..." The tone of her voice was like a man drowning.

"You can," he said slowly, enunciating the words clearly. After a long moment, he added, "Lock it away. Do what you have to."

The handkerchief lowered and she steadied herself, this time with some success. Her eyes were very dark, and Walter found himself not thinking about that it was a woman he was looking at... just someone else with a shared experience. A rarity. A precious rarity. He got up, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and began to walk away. The bond had held a second, but afterwards, he was sick to his stomach. Shaking with anger, but it was none of his business. Not _really._

He'd done what he could.

* * *

Three hundred, seventeen dollars, and fifty-six cents: the total amount she had saved. The number rang over and over again in her mind, like a church bell. Maria knew where to go to get one-of course the spics knew-and she swore the "doctor" was reliable. As the girls walked to the address, Maria tried to keep her spirits up. It wouldn't hurt, she'd heard. It was just like being in a real hospital.

The man was reliable enough, but the place was shabby. It was cleaner than Alana had hoped, which was a good sign, but everything looked dirty to her. _This is where the dirty girls go,_ a part of her wailed. Three hundred dollars gone. Three hundred dollars and her soul, that was. It was a mortal sin, but what else could she do? Even though she was eighteen now, everyone knew she didn't date. She wasn't married. Only dirty girls got themselves in the family way. He gave her something that made her go to sleep. When she woke, she was in terrible pain, cramping and bleeding. The man was almost sympathetic, and Maria was there to help her home. He had been a doctor, Maria had told her. Maybe he was still trying to be one now. It didn't matter though. Nothing mattered anymore. A part of her had died in that shabby place. Her father left her alone for the next couple of days. She had arranged this time off of work-a whole week, and the only time she had ever requested off-because Maria told her she'd have to heal. Nothing but blood. It hurt when she peed. She could barely sleep because of the cramps, and she felt restless. Nightmares plagued her. Her father was nowhere to be found those first two days. He must have known what she did, and hid from it. She couldn't. She would have to live with what he made her do for the rest of her life, and then be condemned to hell forever.

When he came home on the third day, the anger... always present, but always controlled... exploded. Hate coiled around her heart, burning her with its coldness. That night, she went to bed with a knife, sharp. He didn't come.

But he did the night after that.

Drunk and smelling as always, he pawed at her. Never mind that she had aborted his filthy child four days ago. No, never mind that. He still wanted his comfort. He wanted to put his dirty hands on her. Defile her. Bastard. The knife was very sharp, and when she pressed it against his neck, she cut him without meaning to. He stilled. "Never again," she rasped, her throat closed and tight. It was hard to breathe, and her hand trembled as she held the knife. "If you touch me again, I will kill you when you sleep."

"You doan want to do thish," he slurred, reaching up to take the knife away. She pressed, and he stopped moving. "I'm your father!" He managed to sound indignant.

Somehow, she stopped herself from killing him, but a haze settled over her. If he touched her again, she'd kill him then herself. Never again. Ever. "If you touch me again, I will kill you," she said slowly, her voice grating, almost feral. "I swear to God and all that's holy I will. I'll open you like a pig." It must have sunk into his whiskey soaked brain. He eased off the bed and backed out, fear playing over his features. Her father, afraid of her. _Good,_ she thought savagely. _I was afraid of him. Let's see how he likes it!_ She didn't sleep at all that night, afraid he would come back in after she fell asleep. The same problem was there-and now she had to start over. She had no money. She couldn't move unless she married or had her own funds.

The next day with her remaining seventeen dollars, she bought a good strong lock, and a wicked sharp knife.

* * *

Author's Note: (Upon a suggestion in one of the reviews, I moved my frame of mind stuff to below)

I don't normally write fanfiction. I actually hate most of it. I do peruse it now and again though for laughs or to see other people's takes on characters whom I love. The Watchmen fanfic community is starting to explode with the popularity of the movie, and while many of the older fics here treat the canon with respect, the newer ones... don't. Most of the writers are pretty decent though. Just... not quite getting Rorschach. Yes, I lust with everyone else after the actor, and I admire the character, but face it ladies: He's a hands off kind of guy. There's no way I can think of him "getting" with someone. I was getting quite put out of sorts by the amount of people who seem to be aiming at putting an OC together with him.

That's not going to happen.

But while I was thinking of it, a story got put together in my head. We don't know that much about early Rorschach. He seemed odd, maladjusted, but way, WAY more normal than latter Rorschach. Re: Not a psychopath. There are gaps in the stories where fanfiction can fall in and explain what might have happened, how things might have ended up a certain way. There's a ton of gaps in Watchmen. It's not like another comic series where the canon gets bigger and bigger-it's finite. There isn't going to be a sequel, and a lot of it leaves people wondering as to HOW some people get that way, and why they say or do what they do or say. This is one of those stories.

It's not a romance. It may seem to be, especially in this first segment, but it's not. This is my explanation for two words in Watchmen, created because I hate the OCxRorschach pairings I'm seeing. (We won't get started on the Nite Owl II/Rorschach slash. Implied slash is one thing, but yeeesh. Some of the other fics out there are... yeah.)

I think this will be in three parts. There is an OC here, but it's not a self-insert or Mary Sue. Rather, it's hard to construct a woman whom Rorschach would not view with disdain. Not love, certainly not romantic love, but with some respect, maybe. Sympathy, perhaps. He wasn't always how he ends up. This is exploring that, in part. However, to get the whole story, it's told from a his and her point of view.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Please read the first chapter if you haven't already, else this probably won't make much sense. All those notes in the beginning of that apply to this.

Enjoy.

* * *

It didn't take long for Alana to start taking the bus home again. It wasn't that far to walk, only seventeen or so blocks, but after she bought herself some security at home, there was no sense in walking all that way. So, in the fall of 1963, she stepped gingerly on the steps of the bus, and quickly found a seat by the door. The knife she bought stayed with her in her purse. At home, it nestled in the pocket of her dress. She stayed tense, ever alert, yet it still took two times before she noticed the driver was talking to her.

"Excuse me," she said, looking at him with wary eyes. "I missed that."

"I said it's nice to see you again," he replied with a chuckle, closing the door. "I'd wondered what happened to you, or if it was my cologne that chased you off."

"Oh," she replied, hand digging in her purse to wrap around the knife's handle. It made her feel safe. "No."

He seemed to understand to shut the hell up then, and went back to driving. She turned her gaze out the window, glad to be sitting up straight instead of cramped over the workstation's table. It'd been a couple weeks, and her father stayed away from her. A dance played out every evening, especially over dinner. It was a daughter's responsibility to cook and clean for him, but she kept a close watch. She was never within arm's reach of him, and sat at the opposite end of the small table instead of right next to him. Patrick watched her, surly. Instead of his hands, he hit with his mouth, the drink talking for him. Slut, whore, bitch, and worst of all, sinner, were his fists. She didn't mind. Words hurt less than fists. Most of the time, anyway.

And what did it matter if she cried herself to sleep, near every night? Those lessons learned from the redhead served her well now. She locked everything away behind a bland expression, not letting the words touch her outwardly. At least she was safe in her own room now; a private sanctuary. She'd get the money back, slowly. The thing she was most afraid of was Patrick kicking her out. He would be well within his right to do so, as nominally he paid rent. As the weeks passed, it dawned on her he wouldn't do so. Else, who else would cook and clean for him?

It was tolerable, but barely. Being able to lock her door and cry at night helped keep her sane. That, and work. At work she didn't have to worry about that sort of thing at all. She shifted in her seat, eyeing the driver as he rolled open the door for another passenger. If he was going to start... all men wanted was just one thing.

* * *

A couple months after the incident on her steps, she began bringing him food. It was... bizarre, to say the least. Walter didn't mind so much as mostly what he was used to eating was straight out of a can, heated on the small stove in his apartment. It was still strange.

It all started off innocently enough. One day during the lunch break, she sat down next to him. That was unusual in and of itself, but the warmth of her body next to his was... not unpleasant. "Would you like a biscuit?" she'd asked. He shrugged in reply, and she handed him a handkerchief, then went to her own packed lunch. They were good, but tasted funny. He learned later they were potato biscuits, homemade.

Nothing for a week after that, then once more, she sat down next to him. It was a Monday. She held a tin, and offered it to him with a slight, almost shy, smile. Inside were two pieces of apple pie. He took it without words, and ate one piece there. The other he had at home. It took a few times to realize it wasn't just extra food she'd brought by accident. She was making it for him. The workers at the shop usually only had twenty minutes to wolf down their lunch and, for some of them, have a smoke afterwards. She was taking special time out, both inside and outside of work, just for him.

The thought made him warm inside. Nothing much was ever said; sometimes she asked and sometimes she didn't. Sometimes he thanked her, but more often he just accepted. They never touched. It seemed taboo, to break such a delicate spell. He didn't want to break it. The sensation was not unwelcome, either. Other than the time he spent at the gym, he felt accepted, no, wanted even. He drew some small comfort from that.

Sharp and observant as always, he noted the bruises stopped after that night as well. Whatever she had done had worked wonders for her physical health. She walked light and aware now, paying attention to her surroundings. He approved. A virtuous woman had to fight to protect her virtue, if she could. At the very least, she wasn't going to let anyone take her unawares again.

He still walked by her apartment building during his evening strolls, until it got too cold. Yet he felt confident enough she'd take care of herself, so he wouldn't need to. The knowledge made it bearable to forego the circuit, and instead head to the gym or the library, then home.

* * *

"G'wan, ask her," someone said behind her. Alana turned on her heel, recognizing the voice dimly. A couple of the other workers from the shop were behind her. It was bitter cold in February, chilling her to the bone. She was glad she started riding the bus again, even if the driver always looked at her. And smiled. Couldn't forget that.

One of the boys stepped forward, snatching his hat off his head in a last second gesture of courtliness. "Miss, I was wonderin' if ya'd care to go out to the movies with me on Friday?"

She blinked, relaxing, then tensing again. Someone was asking her out; that hadn't happened for a couple years. Alana was nineteen now, and had only been out on a few dates, most of which happened before the... happened before. "No," she said firmly. "But thank you." There, that was polite.

The fellow turned back to his buddy, "See? I toldja."

"Nah," the other stepped forward. "C'mon, girl." He gestured towards her, "You look like you need some fun."

"I don't want any fun," she said, her lip curling in a sneer. They all wanted the same thing. She just knew what 'fun' they had in mind.

Evidently that was true as the aggressive one stepped toward her, "You think yer too good for us, is that it?" She took a step back hurridly, and dug in her purse, heart pounding.

"Stay away from me!" Where was it? Where was it?

He grabbed her arm roughly, "Alla you are the same!" The man's voice softened just a bit; no doubt he thought he was being seductive, trying to coax a wild animal. "It'll be fun, c'mon..."

_There_ it was. She seized the knife and drew it out. Both of them stepped back in a hurry, and she was released. "I said, stay away from me!" She was shaking from head to toe. Now she was going to suffer this... this... _indignity_ from other men? How would she ever meet a nice man to marry? She couldn't go to church. Men were horrible, lustful. All that was in and out of her head in a blink, and she brandished the knife clumsily. "I don't want to be touched!"

The two backed off, the first looking more sorry than his counterpart (maybe he was alright; just fell in with a bad crowd). The second waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, "Crazy bitch. C'mon, let's hit up that Terry girl..." Their voices faded as they walked away. Where was the bus?

"You shouldn't carry it in your purse," he said. She was surprised, but not too surprised. Alana'd recognize his voice anywhere. After all, her mantra had first been uttered by him. _Do what you have to._

She lowered the knife, looking over to him. She never looked up to him, at least not anymore. In the last couple of years she'd grown a couple inches. He didn't. Now, she was taller than him, but not by very much. "I carry it to be safe," she said simply.

"I know, but you shouldn't carry it in your purse," he replied, approaching with a few slow paces. "You should have it out already, or someplace easily accessible." He smiled, a slight smile, but his always were. "How else will you use it if you need to?"

It was the longest speech he'd ever given. "You're right." She looked at the short blade, frowning.

"Either keep it in your pocket-it's small enough-or up your sleeve," he offered, voice growing more confident. The cadences were almost like a normal person; maybe it was because he was outside of work and not around people. Which, now that she thought on it, would make him relax, let his guard down. He was like her, after all. Being with him was sort of like being alone. She liked that.

She tried the pocket first, but it stuck out as the pockets in her coat weren't deep enough. After looking at him and quirking her brows in question, he stepped closer and took the knife from her gently, slowly. He held it so the dull side of the knife was laid against his arm, and the sharp side out in a reverse grip. Then he slipped his arm up his jacket slightly, and the knife whisked out of sight. "See?"

Alana nodded. "I think so, yes. Let me try." He handed it over to her, and their fingers touched briefly. She didn't notice him turning red, absorbed as she was in trying to situate the knife like he did. Once she had the grip down, she tried to bring it out as he did, but it got caught on her coat.

"You'll need some practice," he offered, muttering.

"Or wider coat arms," Alana noted. Yes, it would probably work like that. For now, the purse. As she closed her handbag, she looked back to him. "Thank you."

He nodded, then turned and started to walk away. The bus was pulling up now. A sudden realization dawned. "Wait!" she called. He slowed, and glanced around, frowning. "I'm Alana-what's your name?" They had gone three years, back and forth, without even bothering to ask the most basic of questions.

"Walter," he replied, looking shy for the first time. _He has a crush on me,_ Alana thought. She wasn't sure how to feel about that. Men were awful, hard and cruel. Marriage was a thought that loomed over her constantly, and how to meet a nice man. He was definitely nice, at least to her, though his odd mannerisms at times turned her off. That, and... to look at that face, every day. Even as she thought it, something must have crossed her expression, as he began to close himself off. She actually watched his face shut down, bit by bit, in seconds. No, she didn't want that.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Walter!" she called out, waving. She smiled, flashing her white, even teeth at him, something she never did anymore, and was pleased to see him warm up again, and nod slightly before turning and walking away. He was nice to her-the least she could do would be nice to him back. After all, his words saved her life. Perhaps that was an exaggeration, but he'd given her comfort when no one did. For that, she'd be forever grateful.

"Are you getting on miss?" the driver asked. "Because while I like the winter, I don't think everyone else does." When she turned, he grinned.

Her smile faded, but a ghostly visage of it remained. "Yes, I am. Thank you."

* * *

Over and over he replayed it in his mind. He felt ten feet tall... like a hero. For the first time in a long time, he was happy... more or less. He looked forward to work every day, and even though they didn't talk any more than they normally did, there was a bond between them. Gratitude shone in her eyes whenever she looked at him. Gratitude and warmth. It was not something he was used to. Over and over her words, the small touch. He never embellished it; just treasured it, like some secret they and they alone shared.

It wasn't until the first dream that it turned into a nightmare.

The dream reminded him of his childhood nightmares, of his mother and the dirty things she'd done. Alana wasn't like that. She couldn't be. Yet those dreams came back to torment him, filling him with sick disgust at the images burned into his mind. No, he would _never. She_ would never. She wasn't a whore. She was pure and good and kind.

Those nights left him restless, moreso when he awoke to a wet stomach. He felt physically sick at the thought, but it was like some dam in his mind had been broken and the images tumbled through like a tumultuous river. The scent, the look, the _feel_ of those dreams sent him into a maelstrom of confusion and loathing. He would close it off again, somehow. He should never, _ever_ be thinking that. Women existed just to corrupt men... well, most of them did. After all, wasn't it Eve who tempted Adam?

The days after those kinds of dreams, he kept his distance. Subconsciously, he waited for her to betray her true nature. He couldn't help it, not that he thought on it seriously. It was instinct for him to mistrust women, knowing they were bad. Yet it went on the same as before, and at the end of the day, he was back to quietly watching her, taking comfort in what small moments they spent together, just like he did his matches at the gym, or in a good book. The next one would start the cycle over again.

He thought about taking another job in the shop, one that wouldn't bring him by the seamstresses. However, if he couldn't resist one temptation-and who wasn't tempted in this corrupt world?-then he might as well give up now. She'd never touched him, or even looked at him in that way. As a matter of fact, she never looked at anyone that way. He would just have to live with it, knowing those dreams and her actions were not the same thing. Walter found a balance within himself to accept the paradox of the morally good woman.

The dreams made it rough, though.

* * *

"What? How could you not have heard about it?" Janice shrieked as the both of them stood outside in the damp March day.

"I don't read the papers very much, and Patrick always watches the television," Alana replied. "I read books." She shook her head, "I can't believe that... people watched, and they didn't do anything?"

Janice nodded, looking dead serious, even a little pale under her make-up. "Thirty-eight of them," she affirmed. "They didn't do anything... just stood around and watched."

Alana felt sick to her stomach. It wasn't too surprising; the world, and New York in particular, had a habit of not getting involved. Her neighbors must have heard her cries, but they'd done nothing either. It was the way it was. "Oh my god, the poor girl." To be raped and stabbed. Her thoughts lingered on the boys at the bus stop. That could have been her. She would redouble her efforts to be vigilant.

Her friend nodded in sympathy. No doubt she was thinking the same thing. It could have been any one of them, any one of the people they knew, talked with every day. It was a terrible thing, but what could they do about it?

* * *

Ever since he read in the paper at the library about the girl, he felt sick. He'd walked home in a daze, barely paying attention to his surroundings, and once inside, he raged. How could this happen? There were good people in the world; they should have stopped it! He sure would have!

But would he have? Really? For a second, his thoughts flickered to Alana, and the abuse she must have suffered over what... two years? Two years, and he knew, and didn't do a damn thing. Who else knew? How many times had this happened over and over again, in houses and homes across the city, the nation? He punched the wall; people should have stopped it! He hit it again, harder, righteous indignation warring with revulsion for people, for himself. He liked to think he was better than they were, but when it came down to it, what did he do? He walked away. The least that could be said was he didn't watch.

Tears squeezed out beneath his tightly closed lids, hands clenched into fists. Thirty-eight people! Not one or two, but _thirty-eight_! The words of the article burned in his mind. How could good people-and Walter did believe most people were good, if slow and lazy-stand by and let that happen? He struck the wall again, breaking the plaster and scraping his knuckles. The stud in the wall held; else he might have punched right through it. How could they do nothing? How could they watch? How could he have stood by?

Again and again he punched the wall, until both of his hands were raw and bleeding. A neighbor shouted down to keep it down, to shut the hell up. He hit the wall again, softer this time, his anger spent, leaving only the disgust behind. Weak-kneed, he moved to the bathroom where he threw up. Oh, _God_... thirty-eight people. No one did anything.

Standing up wearily, he washed his hands, watching the blood run in the sink. It swirled down the drain as the water became pink, mixing. No longer clearly delineated; his world mixed. Shades of grey... how could good people stand by and do nothing? It was their responsibility to their fellow man... to protect their daughters and wives, the good men and women of the world. He knew they were out there. What had she done to deserve this? What had she done to warrant being raped and killed in such a savage way?

He looked up, facing himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and swollen, and cheeks wet with tears. All he could see was the corruption, the lines in his face etching out his own faults. He looked in the mirror and all he saw was them. He was not any different. He'd stood by too. He was just like them.

The mirror shattered when he hit it, pieces falling into the sink. A smear of red was left behind, and still he couldn't bear to see his reflection, not even broken as it was. Tearing himself away from the mirror, he reeled back into his bedroom. He had to cover it up. Black and white and shades of grey, all mixing. No... _no_. There had to be lines, lines you didn't cross. People knew what they were supposed to do, they _knew_ what was right and what was wrong! Feverishly spurred on by thoughts of white-and-black, he dug through his chest of drawers. It had to be in here somewhere, it had to be...!

There. There it was. The dress the woman with the Italian name-no, Kitty, Kitty Genovese, he was certain that was the name-had ordered lay in the bottom drawer, cut up in various sizes. He'd thought it was beautiful when he first saw it, the ever shifting shapes, the way the black and the white never mixed. That's how things should be. There was good, and there was evil. None of this moral ambiguity. People didn't talk about the things that happened behind locked doors. They should. Someone should. Someone should do something.

He drew out the fabric and held it up, watching how the black shifted. Yes, it would work. He draped it over his face, sighing. Maybe he'd be able to look at himself this way, make a new face to cover his shame.

* * *

It was September again, already. _Time just kept rolling on,_ Alana thought, _no matter what we do_. She felt pretty good about herself-her stash was almost back up to two hundred dollars! Estimating that she would need four hundred, maybe three if she moved in with another girl, she thought if she worked overtime-or maybe got a second job-she'd be able to move out by this time next year. _Oh, God, please!_ she quietly prayed. Her home life was a wreck; it was amazing the things Patrick could do to hurt her. Not with fists anymore, but throwing the plates of food she made him against the wall, yelling, screaming... and the crying. She pitied him. She hated him. It was her father, however, and it had to be borne. _Soon._

In these last few months, Walter had opened up visibly. He seemed more normal than he ever had, quietly pleased at something. He had new confidence in his step, and maybe he didn't smile at people a whole lot, but he wasn't empty, not any longer. Something had filled him. She was happy for him, and relieved for herself. The thought of him pinning everything on her had been too much, and for a while, she had the feeling he'd done just that. However, something changed, he was happy, and she was left alone.

They were friends, of course. Instead of bringing him a biscuit or two every once in a while, she would share her lunch with him. Well, most of the time. Sometimes, he was still lost in his own world. And he'd talk! That was the biggest change of all. They held actual conversations now, about the news, or the weather, or about work. He never joked, but he had a sharp mind. She'd never seen it before. Alana had only a year of high school, and he had about the same, but he read a lot. That he picked up so much from books was inspiring.

The bruises which started appearing randomly worried her. She didn't ask, but when her gaze lingered too long on a nasty bruise around his neck, he explained quickly about boxing. That he did, every day, at the gym. Not knowing any better, she accepted his explanation. Boys had to be boys, after all.

_Maybe,_ she mused one day. Maybe she might have married him. The thought was disturbing on some level, but if it would have been anyone, it probably would have been him. He was always kind to her, soft-spoken, and gentle. However, she would never get married. Men were too... one-minded. Coarse and rude, the lot of them. She didn't _need_ to get married, though. Janice was talking about moving out of her mother's house, and Alana thought if she could convince Maria to do the same, the three of them could share a decent-sized apartment. The thought kept her buoyed.

Other than Walter and Patrick, the only other man in her life was the bus driver. He never stopped smiling at her, and sometimes she smiled back. The days she did, he was extra chatty, but polite. It was just his job, though. It didn't mean anything.

* * *

1965 was a great year for Walter. After the learning experiences in the beginning, his costumed career really took off. He forewent the gym and his walks to fight crime, to do something about the filth on the streets. Bit by bit he learned about the seedy underbelly of New York, about where the criminals lived and thrived. If no one else would, he would make it safe for people. He wouldn't stand by idly again.

But yes... 1965 was a good year. Other masked vigilantes were on the streets. Most came and went, it being a fad and a short one at that. Or ended up dead in the gutter. However, the second Nite Owl was different. For one, he was prepared with his various gadgets and the Owlship. It didn't take long for Walter to figure out Daniel's identity. And soon after that, Daniel had told him anyway, their partership fostering trust between the two men. Together they took down crime lords, seeing each to jail. It was a great feeling. There was nothing else finer than tracking the wicked, or the surprise on their faces when Rorschach and the Nite Owl busted in through a window (alright, alright, it wasn't always a dramatic entrance, usually wasn't, but there had been a few memorable ones), and arrested the lot of them. Each criminal caught was another victim saved.

Right before Christmas of that year, Nite Owl had given Rorschach a grappling hook, designed especially for him. Walter was touched by the gift. The timing wasn't lost on him either. It was good to have a friend whom he could trust.

* * *

1965 was a fantastic year for Alana. She was twenty years old and finally free! After months of wheedling and begging, Maria had agreed to the three way partnership, and the women moved in together. It was small and cramped for three, but she was finally, deliriously free of Patrick. She practically floated to work every day on Cloud Nine. Every day she thanked God. God may not have had much to do with it-her hard work and perserverance was the reason-but she thanked Him anyway. She thanked the shop, thanked her boss, the bus driver, and Walter. If it hadn't have been for him, she might not have made it. But she did, and she was free!

Christmas of that year was a happy occasion for the first time in years. The girls decided to each get one small gift for each other. Nothing big or expensive. She got a bottle of perfume from Maria, and a pair of earrings from Janice. She'd made each of them a dress, a fancy, pretty dress. The cloth was cheap from the shop, and the embroidery at night by the window calmed her. It was so soothing, and fun again-not just for work-that she decided to make something light and pretty for herself. She'd probably never have the occasion to wear it, but it would be something just for her.

The rough times were over, she felt, for both her and her awkward friend. He seemed happier than ever before too, still somewhat hiding in his mask of neutrality, but more open than ever. Lighter, freer. Both of them.

Her world came to a halt after Christmas though, as she was riding home on the bus. She still kept the knife, having altered the pockets in her coat to carry it comfortably there, out of sight. Better safe than sorry-that lesson she had learned too well. Getting ready to get off at her new stop (her new stop!), the driver behind her caught her attention. "Excuse me, miss?"

She turned slightly, guard down. She was riding too high to be vigilant all the time. "Yes?"

"I know you don't know me, but would you care to go out with me on New Years'? Have some dinner, maybe?" His tone was hopeful, and he scratched his forehead, knocking the hat back.

Alana paled. "I, uhm..." Her hand slipped into her pocket and gripped the knife, waiting. "No. Thank you." Polite. It was best to be polite, but firm.

He gave a ghost of his smile, looking disappointed. "Alrighty then. Merry Christmas." He opened the door for her, and waited, looking back forward, away from her.

She stepped down and out, feeling nervous, anxious. She hadn't been asked out since those other boys-word got around at the shop quickly how 'crazy' she was, at least among the men-and she didn't interact with anyone else. Work then home. Home then work. That was all. No church... she didn't belong in church. She knew she was damned, having accepted that long ago. It would've been hypocritical of her to go.

As she walked up the stairs to her apartment, she wondered if she did the right thing. No, of course she did. They wanted just the one thing, remember? Well, except for Walter, but he wasn't a man... he was just Walter. She set her bundles down on the davenport and frowned. Maria was home, and she was way more experienced. She always had a boyfriend.

"Maria," she called out, looking around.

"In the kitchen!" Alana followed the voice in. "I'm making fajitas tonight!" It was Maria's turn to cook, and she always cooked some spic food. Then again, Alana always cooked something that her mother taught her, invariably Irish recipes. With a lot of potatoes. Her room mates complained about that, but at least potatoes were cheap.

"I..." Now that she was here, she wasn't sure how to put it. "I have a question."

"Go ahead," Maria replied, glancing at the clock. "Where is that girl? She coming home?"

"Yes, she was talking to someone and missed the bus. She'll catch the next one I'm sure. Someone asked me out." She said the words in a rush, before she could think about it too hard.

"What?" Her friend turned around and laughed, "About time, chica! Who was it?" She made a face, "Not that one that followed you around all the time?" Janice had filled Maria in on Walter's crush, and Alana burned at the mention.

"He's perfectly nice, and no," Alana replied, sitting at the table. "It was the bus driver."

Maria turned the heat on the chicken low, and took a seat next to her. "The blond one?" Alana nodded confirmation, "He's nice. Talks sorta funny though."

"I think he said he was from Minnesota," Alana said slowly, straining to remember. "The problem is... it's going to keep happening."

"What?" Maria blinked, not expecting that.

The Irish girl shifted uncomfortably. "I wouldn't mind Walter, if he asked." Maria made that face again-Janice had also reported his looks and how short he was. "But other guys... I don't know. Don't they... just want... _that_?"

"Some do and some don't," Maria said matter-of-factly, her face creasing in a frown. "You're thinking about-" Alana nodded quickly, cutting her off before she could say it aloud. People didn't talk about that sort of thing. Even this was pushing the boundaries. "Honey," the girl said, taking Alana's hand in both of hers. "Honey, that won't happen. Most guys, they're stupid, you know? But not that stupid." _Most guys don't rape_, she was saying.

Alana thought about that, uncertain. "I don't feel normal. Maybe I'm not... like you two." She wasn't really comfortable around men anymore, only women.

"You're not some dyke, are you?" Maria asked, skeptically.

"No, no," Alana assured her. "It's just... I don't like men, all that much." She stammered a bit, "Bec-cause of... you know..." Putting that behind her was harder than she thought it would be. Free she might have been, but she still had the scars the chains had left on her.

"Listen," Maria said quickly, as they heard Janice open the door. "You come out with me and Ricky, ok? If it was for New Years'..." Alana nodded. "...then you come out with us. We're gonna have dinner and a few drinks, and watch the ball drop. I ain't never seen it in person before, and it'll be fun. But you stick close to me, and if he does anything, we're outta there. Sound fair?"

That... might be workable. She felt like a freak anymore. Once upon a time her head had been filled with the thought of boys and getting married, having a family. What had happened after her mother's death ruined it. It was unthinkable anymore, but she felt so alone. However, she trusted Maria with her life. She knew how to handle guys. And there was always the knife. "I'll... try."

All the next day, she thought about it, drudging up every bit of information about the driver she could remember. He'd said he was from Minnesota, and said his name once. Something with an 'M'. He'd always smiled... not leered. He seemed a gentleman, but then, Patrick had been too, before, with her mother. Who knew what lurked beneath? On the other hand, if she lived her life afraid all the time, she'd end up alone. A loving person by nature, she didn't want that. But who else...?

Her mind drifted to Walter. No, she wouldn't mind him, but he was even more awkward than she was for all their friendliness. He'd never ask her out. She couldn't bring herself to ask him; it was improper. Nor... she was ashamed to say it, but she couldn't see herself kissing him, much less anything else. He was a friend. He was Walter. The bus driver was reasonably handsome, and seemingly nice. Ricky was a construction worker. He was tough, and he was crazy about Maria. Even the few times Alana had met him, she could see that. He could probably beat up the driver. There was also her knife. And if he tried anything...!

With that, she knew she was going to try it. When her shift ended and she said goodbye to Walter, Alana walked to the bus stop, rehearsing what she would say. When he opened the door and she climbed the steps of the bus, she stared at him. Was he a good person? Would her hurt her? "Uhm..."

"Yes?" he asked, looking a bit surprised. She'd never initiated conversation between them before.

"My roomate is going out. Double-dating. Is that ok?" The words were clipped.

"Yeah, sure!" he replied, realizing she was accepting his proposal. "Just tell me where to show up and I'll be there!"

She gave him an address, where she would be with Maria and her boyfriend. Janice might come too, and that would be even better. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Mike, Michael, sorry. Whichever." He was smiling at her, looking ecstatic. It was a little embarassing.

"I'm Alana."

He offered a hand, "Pleased to meet you." She didn't take it, and he lowered it, smile not fading a bit. "We're going to have a great time. I promise."

* * *

He was walking by the bus stop, in his old habit of 'walking her home', when he stopped in his tracks, shocked. She was kissing the bus driver on the cheek! Walter couldn't help but to stare. He was aghast. The door closed as he was watching, and Alana sat down in the window seat. She didn't see him. She looked happy.

Walter turned that over in his mind a few times, still shocked at the thought. In the years he had known her, she had never shown one bit of interest in men. How long had it been? Six years? Yes, of course, she had started going out sometimes, not that he was around to see. Being Rorschach kept him busy, and fulfilled in ways he never thought possible. He didn't even have dreams about her anymore, and hadn't for quite a long time. His crimefighting kept him busy. His partnership with Daniel was really the only social contact he needed, or even wanted.

Maybe... she had moved on?

Hurm, it was possible. Not all men were criminals. Look at himself and Daniel. Both were fine, upstanding gentlemen, even in their 'day jobs'. There were plenty of others, cops and firefighters... ordinary men who were just fine. Some others were not so fine, hiding beneath a veneer of respectability. He'd... better make sure that driver wasn't one of them. A lot of people wore masks, after all.

A few simple inquiries outside of the mask got a name. Becoming Rorschach, he followed the trail, found out where the driver lived. It was simple, nothing extravagent, just what he expected on a bus driver's salary. A few more inquiries got a police record. Nothing there either. Rorschach took to following the man around, just for a couple of days...weeks...and while this Michael drank, it was nothing excessive. He didn't go trolling for whores. Most of the time, he spent at home and at work. One night a week, he went out with some other men, and another night he went out with her. It was a simple life.

Feeling like a peeping Tom, he watched one of their dates. They ate, talked, laughed. Walter didn't know what he was feeling as he looked on impassively. For a while, he thought he might have been jealous, except... it wasn't that. He didn't envy the man, and he didn't want to be him. Walter was focused on Alana, watching her movements, seeing her bright smile-which, now to think of it, had been brighter in the past few months-studying her face. She was happy, very happy. Walter was... regretful, but it wasn't to be. Afterwards, he checked in on them occasionally as Rorschach, just to make sure, but in the end, he let it go. Walter and her were both happy; destinies fulfilled. He left it be, knowing that a circle had closed he hadn't realized was open.

They were both living their dreams, once thought unattainable.

* * *

During her break, she handed out invitations. Light on her step, she saved the most important one for last. When she handed out the invitation on the cheap paper to him, her eyes were solemn even as her mouth was smiling. He tilted his head to the side slightly, asking, "What's this?" His eyes were warm, knowing. He knew. She didn't know how, but he knew already. This was a formality.

"An invitation to my wedding," she said quietly, smile widening at the thought. On the first of May, her and Michael would be man and wife, something she never thought possible. Ever. "I want you to be there, Walter."

Slowly, his head canted to the other side. "I'm not much for social gatherings," he observed mildly.

Alana bobbed her head, "I know...but it would mean so much to me." She looked him in the eye, her gaze steady. He matched her look, and there the secret passed between them. He understood her, had watched her for so long. That she was stronger now was partially because of him. She never forgot those words he said to her; they were etched in her heart. She grasped his hand, "If you don't, I understand, but it would mean a lot to me."

He didn't flinch away, though she felt him tense at the contact, then he withdrew his hand. Politely, yet firmly, so there was no question. "Congratulations," Walter said. His smile was there and gone in a blink. "You're a good woman; you deserve to be happy."

Smiling even wider, Alana lowered her hand. "So do you."

* * *

Author's Note: Writing happy is hard for me. I don't know why. Maybe because I'm a horror fan at heart. Anyway, this one was really hard because instead of going on the little bits and pieces of the Walter-that-was, we're starting to delve into Rorschach. The mirror scene was the hardest...yet it also made me wonder, in the novel, why that murder especially drove him over the edge? Other killers were around. Why that one? It had to be because people just watched... but that it also echoed something in him. He was capable of defending people, but he just watched as well. This just made it a bit more personal.

The other part which was hard to write was the very natural reaction Walter would have to someone he's attracted to. The mind works in mysterious ways, and trying to keep the normal part of his subconscious coupled with his very abnormal attitudes about sex and women... arrrgh! So. Hard. To. Write.

Thank you for the reviews so far. Again, I'm understanding more about the fanfic community, when a story grabs you and shakes you and screams, "WRITE ME!" This one is like that. I'm trying very very hard to keep things as In Character for Walter as I can. Thank you for the encouragement.

Also, thank you for the reassurances that Alana's not a Sue. Hee. I think that was about my biggest fear, besides keeping Wally IC. She seems a bit ...silly... to me, but that's the modern day me talking. The author-me realizes she can't be any other way. That's just how it was. Period pieces are especially hard.

There's one more section to be done. I think I might be done writing for a bit though. I need to plot this last piece out carefully. I have an outline, but it's capturing the feelings that's difficult. Which is why I'm surprised this segment came out at easily as it did. I don't do happy. Maybe because I know it's just the set up for the fall that makes it easy.

Cheers.


	3. Chapter 3

The wedding was perfect. The weather had graced them with a light spring day; not too hot, nor too cool. Michael was wonderfully handsome in his suit, and she had sewn a special ivory gown for the occasion, with lace and golden embroidery on the bosom. It was on the steps of City Hall, with their close friends and family around. His family anyway, those who could afford the trip out to New York from Minnesota. The rest of them would be waiting in the reception hall. His parents had disapproved of the civil service, but Alana had been adamant. It had been the only fight they had as she refused to step foot in a church. Luthern (like he was) or Catholic or kike for that matter. She had too much respect for God to defile a place of His worship.

Walter hadn't been there, but that was alright. Alana hadn't really expected him, though she had been compelled to invite him. Over the years, the distance between the two had waxed and waned, and it was waning again. She was busy with Michael; he with his own activities, whatever they were. It was enough to know he thought she should be happy.

The reception was a bit overwhelming, but with Michael at her side, Alana could stomach it. He had so many relatives to meet, and it seemed all of them had come. He claimed it was only about half. He wanted a big family. So did she. Marriage, then a baby...she conveniently forgot about the step inbetween. They danced, and then she danced with his father, and two brothers, and then the uncles... and cousins... he had enough family for the both of them, and then some. Janice was there with the boy she was seeing at the time, and Maria and Ricky (engaged now as well), and a few of the women from the shop... and that was all from her side. It seemed pitifully small by comparison, but it wasn't like it was a competition.

Finally, the evening dimmed down, and the newlyweds adjourned to his apartment. As he carried her over the threshold, he promised to get her a proper house someday, as soon as he could get a loan. He kissed her, softly, and she smiled. Such a nice dream.

Small cracks started to appear in the porcelain vision as the time loomed closer and closer. He would be claiming his marital rights tonight. All the while they were dating, it had been a relatively chaste relationship. The most they had done had been some very light petting, and even that left her with an uncomfortably familiar sensation, even though Michael's hands were never rough. As the time came closer and closer-he showering before bed, and she changing into her nightgown-Alana began to tremble. Was it going to be as bad as Patrick? No, Michael would never hurt her. He promised. Then again, Patrick was supposed to protect her too...

The shower stopped, and Alana turned off the lights and hopped under the covers. She pulled them up around her and lay on her side, back to the bathroom door. When he opened the door, she heard him mutter something, and he left the bathroom light on. No darkness to conceal this. She would have preferred not to have seen anything though.

A hand on her back, "Hey, sweetheart, are you alright?"

She turned slightly to look at him. His good, honest face was completely open, and filled with worry. "I'm fine," she lied, smiling to prove it. "Just a little tired... it was a busy day."

He leaned down to kiss her, murmuring his agreement, "And the best part yet to come."

Outwardly, she was neutral. Inwardly, her stomach did lazy flip-flops. Michael continued to kiss her, soft romantic pecks, lingering lazy caresses, and her body responded, but her mind seemed to be on the ceiling looking down. She wasn't really _doing_ anything... she just had to keep up appearances... she didn't want to get him angry.

Evidently, whatever she had been doing was enough to inflame him. His caresses and kisses grew more impassioned, moving along her jaw and neck, as his hand undid the buttons to her gown and slipped inside to cup her breast. This wasn't happening to her. It couldn't be the same thing all over again. Her fingers stayed in place where they were on his shoulders and back, not moving, though tensing the more he did, gripping him. She wanted to tell him to stop, don't, please don't hurt her. She wanted him to protect her, like he promised to do, protect and cherish. People didn't do this to the ones they cherished! Yet... how did you ask protection from the person who was doing the harm to you?

He moved on top, the light from the bathroom illuminating half of his face, leaving the rest wreathed in shadow. Night and day. Black and white. He smiled at her, and she smiled woodenly back. Somewhere in the petting, he had lost the top of his pajamas, and hers were open, so it was flesh pressed against flesh. The heat made her nauseous, but then he was busy again, finishing disrobing and lowering her panties. Whenever he asked a question, she nodded, quick and rabbitlike, not hearing his words.

He spread her legs, moving between them. After some adjustment, he entered her slowly, and she about vomited, her nails digging into his skin. Again and again, the pace picked up until she was grunting with him as he thrust, a low guttural sound ripped unwanted from her throat. It didn't take long for him to come to his climax, and when he did, he cried out her name and nestled his face in the crook of her neck. After a few moments panting and trying to catch his breath, he raised up on his arms, and smiled down at his new wife. "I love you."

Alana burst into tears.

Michael got off of her in a hurry as she covered her face with her hands, weeping. He grasped her arm, rubbing it briskly, "Alana? Alana? What's wrong? Are you alright?" Alarm was thick in his voice. He went to gather her in his arms, and she pushed away from him. He leaned back on the bed, staring helplessly at her. His mouth worked for a moment as he began to ask again what was wrong, but stopped as she wept harder. Instead, he watched anxiously, awkwardly patting and rubbing her on her side as she curled up.

It took several long tear-filled minutes before she was able to even lower her hands, and another few until she could turn to look at him. She couldn't bear to look at him, and have him see her shame, but she had to. He was her husband now, for better or for worse. To her surprise, he wasn't angry. Tense, yes, and frustrated without a doubt, but not angry. "Are you alright?" he asked in a low voice, laden with concern.

She began to nod, then stopped herself and shook her head. Alana opened her mouth, the words threatening to come out, and found herself tearing up again. This time, when he went to take her in his arms, she let him, drawing comfort from the connection, feeling the warmth and solidness of him. Not a shadow. Something real. And he loved her.

Michael stroke her hair gently, not pressing her to talk. She could have fallen in love with him all over again for that. When she felt steadier, she peeled back to look at him, sitting up more comfortably in bed as she did so. She looked at her hands for a long time, glancing at his eyes from time to time to gauge the emotional weather. He, thankfully, seemed used to some of this behavior, and while looking anxious, he waited. "I..." she started, knowing he was expecting an explanation. "I... can't talk about it." How could she?

"Did someone hurt you?" He paused, the next question fraught with layers of anxiety, "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, moving it back and forth slowly. Drawing her feet up, she locked her arms around her legs, her chin propped up on her knees. "No...I just... I don't know if I can do... _that_."

"Have sex, you mean?" Now there were strains of anger in his voice. She shrank in on herself a bit, chin sliding down so that her lips rested on her knees, pressed against them tightly. "Why didn't you bring this up before? I just thought..." A loud snort and a rustle as he got up. "I thought you were saving yourself for marriage... I thought you wanted a family?" Anger and pleading mixed in his voice, giving it a harsh, plaintive quality.

"I do," she said, chancing a look at him. "But..."

"But _what_?" he asked, trying to control himself. She could hear that, see it, and thanked him for it silently. "To have kids, we have to have sex. Honey," he restarted, sitting down again and putting a gentle hand on the side of her legs. "It's normal for it to hurt at first, for girls, I mean, for virgins. I'm so sorry that I hurt you, but it'll get better." A pause, "You'll even start to enjoy it... I probably moved too fast, it's my fault."

"No," Alana replied, lifting her head up. "No, it's not your fault. I'm, ah..." She rocked back and forth a little. What could she say? "I'm just frigid." The half-truth burned her tongue, but the rest refused to come out.

"We can go to a doctor about that, ok, sweetheart?" The pleading in his voice was unmistakeable, the please left unsaid. When she nodded hesitantly, he gathered her in his arms again. "It's ok, Alana. We'll get this worked out... just... if there's a next time, and I'm hurting you, tell me, ok? I didn't know."

She nodded again as they lay down together. She felt violated, yet safe in his arms. It was a bizarre combination, each one heightening the sense of the other. Yet she was safe. She knew that. He wouldn't hurt her. He loved her. Maybe a doctor would help.

* * *

Nite Owl otherwise occupied for the night (he didn't nearly have the stamina Walter did when it came to crimefighting), Rorschach did his regular 'rounds'. He had a few areas of Brooklyn and Queens he patrolled on a regular basis, though he ventured in the other burroughs as well. If people saw his face, they sometimes stared, sometimes ran, and sometimes waved. It made him feel like he was making a difference...that the evildoers who ran knew who he was. He sometimes chased them, but oftentimes didn't bother. The minions ran; it was the head of the snake which mattered.

This night, he was in luck. A warm glow close by and shouts of panic alerted him to what was probably a fire. He ran, and was not disappointed in his surmise. An apartment building, ten stories tall, was indeed on fire. The blaze wasn't an inferno quite yet, but it looked to be spreading fast. Quite a few people were standing outside, gathered around. Some were weeping, and one woman was screaming, looking around, panic in her eyes brighter than the flames. "Seeeeaaaan! Sean! Where are you?"

It was her whom Rorschach approached. "What floor?" he demanded, turning her to face him.

"Your face...!" she exclaimed, startled.

He shook her arm, "What floor? Quick!"

"F-fifth floor... third one on the left," she responded, understanding he was going to try and save Sean. "He's a boy, about five, find him, please!"

Without wasting a second, he approached the building, going around the side to where the fire escape was. He leaped up to grab it and pull down the ladder. Climbing quickly, he searched for a window not filled with fire, taking a calm assessment of how long he might have before the building was completely consumed. It might have started on the ground floor, or the basement, but it was climbing fast. The fifth floor was filled with smoke, but not much fire. He broke the window with his elbow, and stepped quickly aside in case of any backdraft, then entered.

It was easy enough to find the apartment. Walter kicked down the door. The floor was unstable here, so he prodded with his foot, trying to find steady footing. Edging around the hot spot in the floor, he glanced around, taking in his surroundings in a blink. A child would hide, either under the bed, or in the closet. Down the short hallway he went, looking for the parent's room first. Under their bed is where he found the child. He had no time to try and get this kid to trust him, and so he grabbed the child's arm with a quick motion, and words of encouragement, "I'm here to save you." Without waiting, however, he hauled the kid out unceremoniously from under the bed, and cradled him. The kid screamed, terrified, and Walter winced. He'd have to work on that, but another time, as the seconds were ticking by.

"It's ok, you're going to be fine," he said, moving down the hall and into the main room. "Just hold on tight to me." The kid, Sean, wasn't stupid at least, and strong for a child. The arms locked around Walter's throat, holding on for dear life.

Walter edged around the weak point in the floor again, and out into the apartment building's hallway. The fire had claimed more ground, blocking his way to the fire escape. Without wasting a bit of time, he strode to the other side of the hallway, the smoke making him cough behind his mask now. Glancing out, he gauged the distance of the building next to the one he was in. It was pretty close-it'd be difficult to get a good shot at the roof, and he'd have only one shot. The kid was crying and coughing as Walter pulled out his grappling hook gun. He broke the window, letting the shards of glass fall around his hand as he aimed the gun.

After that, it was easy.

The flames were rising higher and higher, and the fire trucks finally on their way. When Walter walked around the corner, holding the child, the crowd cheered at him. Cheered. The mother rushed forward and grabbed Sean from him. Rorschach rocked back on his heels, unconsciously leaning away from the woman as she cried in the crook of her child's neck. When she looked up, her eyes shone. "Thank you," she said, heart in her voice. "Thank you so much, Rorschach. Oh, god, bless you."

Walter sauntered away from that encounter feeling pleased with himself. He went back on patrol, but the good feeling didn't leave. Deciding to capture the moment, he went to his favorite rooftop near Nite Owl's lair, and pulled out his notes. His journal was important; it was what he would leave behind when he was finally gone, so that people could know what he did for them, could know his thoughts and words as well as his deeds. Hence, he composed it very carefully, writing down notes on scratch pieces of paper making sure they were perfect before committing them to his journal once and for all. He wrote the notes in a cypher, that cypher increasing in complexity as time went by. It wouldn't do for any of his secrets to get out if he should get captured.

As he chose each word carefully, a familiar thrum caused him to look up. Daniel was leaving for the day, to go on patrol. He'd missed him returning from his date. He knew what direction Daniel was heading though; he could meet up with his partner and see what was going on. Maybe they'd be able to help someone else.

Cheered by the thought, Walter followed the Owlship, as best he could. He knew Daniel would either keep to the skies or land on a rooftop, so he didn't bother climbing down again, but rather found a path from rooftop to rooftop, using his grappling hook when necessary. About twenty blocks later, he spied the Owlship on top of a roof, but Daniel wasn't alone.

Instead of heading right for him, Rorschach chose the building behind. It was close, and he was able to make the leap across easily enough, shoes scuffling the gravel on top. He approached slowly, from behind, using the shadows to keep him stealthy. Daniel and his companion didn't notice, absorbed in each other as they were. They were embracing, kissing, and Walter couldn't believe it.

When they parted, he could see it was the Twilight Lady, the underground's vice queen. They kissed again, and the motions she made...

Walter slammed his fist against the brick, and turned on his heel to leave. That wasn't right. You didn't mix with the enemy! How could Daniel sully himself with... well, with a whore? The Queen of Whores? Disgusted, he dropped out of sight, and didn't approach Daniel for weeks.

He never mentioned what he saw.

* * *

"I'm going to ask you to leave the room now, sir, as I need to ask your wife some feminine questions," the doctor said, giving Michael a bland-everything-is-of-course-alright smile. Michael glanced to Alana and nodded. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before exiting. When the two were alone, the doctor turned to face her. "No doubt these would be a bit uncomfortable with your husband around, and they might be a little invasive, but I need you to answer honestly, ok?" His tone was polite, but firm.

Alana nodded, clutching her purse as a shield. She'd already been through the indignity of the physical examination, and she had a good guess of what the doctor was going to ask. How he knew what happened to her she had no idea. She regretted not bringing the knife-she never carried it when she was out with Michael, trusting him to keep her safe-but now she longed for the illusion of safety it provided.

"Have you been with child before?"

Alana blinked, and was surprised into a nod. That was not what she had expected.

The doctor wrote something down on his clipboard, his voice clinical, "I thought so. There was some scarring that indicated either a miscarriage or an abortion." He looked at her, and her eyes slid away, unable to meet his gaze. Without asking, he scribbled something else down, then set both clipboard and pen aside. "Do you enjoy your husband touching you?"

Her cheeks flamed, but he was a doctor, so it was all proper, wasn't it? She shrugged. When he just sat there waiting, Alana cleared her throat and answered hesitantly, "I... like it when he kisses me, but..."

"You don't like anything else?" the doctor probed, as gently as he could manage. It still sounded sterile, unemotional. She shook her head quickly no. "Were you ever touched inappropriately?"

"It wasn't my fault," she burst out, jerking her head up to look at him. "It _wasn't_! I couldn't fight him off, and-" She bit her lip, swallowing her words. There were still some things she couldn't say, doctor or no.

He shook his head slightly. It is my fault, she thought to herself. _Oh, God, what did I do? Can't I have children now? I really am going to Hell._ She slipped back into stealing glances, not able to meet his eye. "I hate it when I see this sort of thing," he said, a bit of revulsion seeping into his voice. She winced. "God damned bastards." He cleared his throat, and resumed his professional voice, "I am happy to say that you definitively are not frigid, but you will need some help, and I can't give that to you."

"What?" she asked, wounded. "I'm going to be like this forever?"

"No, no, of course not," the doctor replied, picking up a pad of paper and writing a name and an address down upon it. "No, I need to refer you to a psychiatrist." He gave her a sympathetic look, "You're suffering from a mental block because of your experience. I'd suggest making an appointment as soon as possible, for the both of you. I'm assuming your husband doesn't know?" She shook her head, looking down again. "It's not uncommon-sad to say-but it is out of my purview. This woman is an excellent psychiatrist. She should help the both of you immensely."

"Thank you, sir," Alana said, taking the offered paper.

* * *

Walter generally tried to collar the big criminals... the crime lords, the mafia dons who had escaped warrants, the drug distributors... the ones who helped to originate the crime, rather than those who partook of it. If the dealer couldn't get their goods, they'd go out of business. It made sense, but it also left him a bit out of touch among the people. When he saw a crime, he sure as hell stopped it, but he didn't go looking for them, the petty muggers and thieves. There was no way of knowing if the petty criminal had a warrant out for his arrest after all, and while he could make a citizen's arrest, it raised all sorts of questions the cops (and politicians) hated about what rights and privileges the masked vigilantes had. Were they like officers? Or just wild cannons? No, it was safer to go after the big fish.

He never hesitated in rescuing someone who needed help, though. That was part of the dream too. So, when he heard the shouts, he turned a mildly interested ear down the alley, and moved quietly to investigate. It seemed pretty typical: a man was beating on a woman, presumably getting ready to rape her, or worse, kill her. She was crying, mascara running wildly down her cheeks, sobbing loudly in the cool night air. The guy raised his fist again, ready to hammer it down on the victim. "I think you should let the lady go," Rorschach said, stepping out of the shadows.

The guy barely looked up. "I don't think it's none of your fuckin' business, fag." He didn't see the mask. The fist descended, and the woman crumpled to the ground. Walter sprang into action, on the guy before he could even draw another breath. His left hook slammed into the guy's jaw, and as the guy reeled back, a quick leg sweep sent him down to the ground to join his prey. The thug had more life in him, though, and as he scooted back on his rear, he reached into a pocket and brought out a switchblade. Pretty typical for a creep like him. But as Walter was feeling generous, he let the guy get to his feet.

Now he noticed the mask. The guy spat blood, "Fuckin' masks... I'm gonna cut that off and see what's under that."

"A better face than yours," Rorschach said, loving every minute of this. It was almost too easy. The guy had been drinking and was swaying on his feet, likely from a combination of the drink and the hit earlier. With an inarticulate grunt, the man charged. Walter stood his ground, tense, but ready to move. He twisted at the last second and lifted his arm up so the guy knifed only trenchcoat. Down came his elbow, crunching the forearm below it, and he grabbed the guy's jacket with his hand. The thug tried to rebalance, but as his arm was hit, he screamed in pain, and lost footing on his right foot. With his other fist, Walter rabbit punched him in the kidney, three times in quick succession before getting hit himself, from behind.

From the woman.

"You let him go!" she screamed, fists and open hand slaps raining down on his back and his fedora. "You let him go raight naaaaooooow!" the girl wailed, her blows ineffective, but making Walter shrink slightly into his coat regardless. He let the felon go, who then fell to the ground. The guy backed up on his rear again, this time cradling his arm which must have been broken.

Walter turned and snatched the woman's hands in the air. "Miss, I'm saving you."

She wrestled around like a wildcat, until he had no choice but to let her go. She kicked him in the shin while he stared at her, confused. "He's my boyfriend, you dip!" she shouted. With that, she went to the guy, falling on her knees next to him, and asking the thug if he was ok, and that he was her poor, poor baby. Walter could only watch. Her lip was split, and one of her eyes blackened, yet she cooed over his injuries and tried to help him to stand. He turned away, sickened, moving into the night, disappearing from view.

What was the world coming to, that the victims would defend their abusers? That thugs would be coddled by innocents? It was unthinkable. It was horrifying. Feeling disgusted with mankind, he climbed on top of one of his regular perches, and sat down with his notes. He shuffled through them until he found his most recent scribblings:

_Saved a woman today who was being beaten to death. She turned on me when I attacked her attacker, driving me off in confusion. How am I supposed to protect the innocent *scribbled out* ordinary Americans *scribbled out* those who need it when they won't let me *scribbled out* when they attack me? Am I an invader/an invading germ/a parasite (dont' like any of that, what else would work for an analogy?)? Am I just another symptom, a side effect of fighting the disease? Will there ever be a cure in sight?_

It would do for now, until he could think of a better analogy. Folding the scratch paper carefully in half, he pocketed it in his inside coat pocket. It was getting late, maybe he should just go home and rest anyway.

The memory of the scene hounded him all the way home. Walter could not imagine ever defending someone who was so clearly in the wrong. He didn't know anyone who would. What kind of person would turn around and defend the ones who hit them? The Jews certainly wouldn't defend Hitler, and it was the same thing on a much smaller scale. Uneasy, he slipped in his window, knowing no one would see him at this hour. Taking off his mask and uniform, he folded them and put them carefully away in the false bottom he'd made for his trunk. He laid down, but still, the woman plagued him. It was depressing. Looking back at his career, he wondered how many of the victims went back to their abusers now? It was an unsettling thought.

* * *

Going to the shrink wasn't a fun experience. First, they went together, and then Dr. Carlisle had recommended Alana come back on her own. Money wasn't tight with both of them having jobs and living in one place now, but the shrink's cost wasn't small either. They talked about it, and finally, after Alana had broken down, Michael asked her to go. She couldn't refuse him, not when he was so concerned. He took on a second job, part time, to help pay for it.

Dr. Carlisle was patient, and understanding, and best of all: female. Alana could relax a little in the tan office, with the tan couches, and talk about how she felt. That part wasn't so bad. It was when they ventured close to the abuse that she froze up. Michael's main complaint during the marriage counseling was he felt he didn't know his wife now, and he'd thought he had...that and they hadn't had relations since the wedding night, some weeks ago. Alana didn't feel comfortable with it. After another couple weeks, it finally came out that she felt helpless and out of control during. That fact was a small breakthrough, and the doctor suggested that perhaps they try female on top-if Alana felt comfortable enough with trying again-to give her the sense of control she lacked.

In early September, after multiple starts and stops, they finally had sex again. The doctor's advice had worked to a point; she needed to see where Michael's hands were at all times in addition to being in a position of power. And she didn't tell him she had hidden her knife (which he thought was ludicrous when she carried it around) inbetween the mattresses. She didn't really "feel" anything physically other than the sense of penetration, but emotionally, seeing the love in her husband's eyes, she felt accomplished, finally, as a woman. With that to spur her on, they had sex more or less regularly. Careful and slow love was made, finally bonding them together in a real sense.

In November, she found out she was pregnant, and was thrilled with the news.

* * *

During the break, Walter wasn't really interested in Alana's pictures. She was excited-having come back after taking maternity leave-and couldn't help but to brag about her child. He didn't blame her-he just wasn't that interested. The kid was cute though, a little girl they named Blair. He nodded in all the right places, and made the appropriate sounds (which came out sounding more like noncommital grunts than anything else), and kept right on turning his problem over in his mind. Trying to figure out how to find latest drug dealer's lair was turning difficult. The mobster was ingenious at hiding, and had several hidey holes prepped, knowing the "masks" were after him. One of Walter's involuntary informants got out of holding and hadn't wasted time on informing the crook Rorschach was after him. That had driven the criminal underground, and when they went to ground, it was difficult to dig them up again, to say the least.

He nodded again, as Alana got up to leave for more accomodating company. She left with a friendly wave, and left him to his own devices. _How to find him...?_

_

* * *

_

Blair's fourth birthday was a joyous event, even more so for Michael as Alana had finally relented and allowed Blair to be baptized in his church. It seemed harmless enough, and they were very... relaxed. There were no confessionals, which shocked Alana, and their priests could marry! After stepping in church (Dr. Carlisle had told her back in the therapy days that churches were there to support their parisionhers, not condemn them-she certainly didn't know what it was like to be Catholic) and meeting the pastor for the first time, she decided to come to a service with him, bringing Blair along. It was a missing piece in Alana's soul, and she began praying again, but to this stranger-God instead of the one she feared.

She was baptized on her birthday, in a cute little pink dress Alana had made for her. Alana made almost all of her clothing, except for underwear and socks. She loved dressing her little girl up whenever she could get away with it, and today was particularly grand, with elaborate embroidery along the hems and cuffs of the dress. Her gold hair (like her father's) was pinned back with a couple of barrets. Alana couldn't have been prouder.

The birthday party afterwards was what Blair was looking forward to, though, and watching their child unwrap presents with glee amidst the neighbor's children and Maria's two children made both parents warm. Alana wanted to give everything to her daughter, being as it was likely she would be the only one. Michael had wanted a son to carry on his name, but with one miscarriage and the doctor's warning not to get pregnant again, it was unlikely. Both of them positively doted on Blair, and Alana never felt happier watching her husband play with their child.

She always watched closely, though she never realized she was doing it.

* * *

It wasn't often Walter approached Alana; perhaps those two or three times in the early days when she had seemed to need someone so badly. He did today, just before she left on her last day to single her out and say goodbye. He'd probably never see her again, but that was alright. He had much more important things to worry about, and while the long association had brought him some peace, his crimefighting was what he lived for. Still, it was polite to say goodbye.

After he did so, he watched her walk to meet her husband, who was carrying their child with him. The three made the perfect image of the American family, and for a brief second, Walter indulged in thinking about his father. His family would have been like that if his dad hadn't have been killed by Nazis. Well, perhaps not, but the family made for a striking image, a _patriotic_ image in his mind. If he ever needed a reason to fight, that was it... so that decent people could raise their children in safety. It lifted his spirits for the rest of the day, made it easier to ignore the whores and drug users which littered his streets.

* * *

The world ended.

It ended for Alana when she got the visit from the police, that her girl had been kidnapped. She was at her new job, at a place that did speciality dresses. She was one of the most valued seamstresses, and well paid. When things were turning around for the family financially, after scraping by for so many years for her therapy, and then doctor bills for the pregnancy, the miscarriages, and finally the second pregnancy, she had gotten a decent job which paid her very well for her work. As the officers told her Blair was missing and a note had been left behind, blood drained from her face, and she felt like passing out. Although she'd read over the years about the horrible killings by serial killers, and the various murders and rapes and thefts, she never thought anything like that would happen to her again. She'd paid her dues. She'd made peace with God. Now, he was torturing her again, but this time... this time, her daughter was the one paying for whatever cosmic balance had come due.

They'd called Michael too, and thank God for that. Alana wouldn't have been able to form the words his baby girl had been taken. A coworker had to drive her home. The police had instructed them to stay there, by the phone, in case they had any new information. There were interviews for both of the parents. Alana went over Blair's schedule time and time again. Michael dropped her off on his way to work. She picked her up from kindergarten. No, she wasn't allowed to walk alone. Yes, she should have known better than to talk to strangers. No, she didn't know anyone who'd want to hurt her, or her family. A ransom note had been left at the scene, at her school, where she had been kidnapped. It demanded a ten thousand dollars for her safe return. It might as well have been a million. They were doing ok now, but there were still back bills to pay and... there was no way. None.

She paced. She sat with Michael. She tried to cook dinner. She sat. She paced. She jumped when the phone rang, but it was only Maria asking if they had any news yet. She paced. Days passed with no word. She paced. She tried to sleep. She cooked dinner, only to watch Michael pick at it. She paced. What else was there to do?

Alana jumped again when there was a tap on the window. A shadowed figure crouched on the sill, wearing a fedora and a mask which moved. It wasn't the kidnapper; it was one of those costumed vigilantes. Rorschach, after the test. Alana sat down hard in the kitchen chair, staring at him. "May I come in?" He was very polite, but his voice was strange.

"Yes," she said, folding her hands together as if to pray. "Why... Are...?"

"I'm here about your little girl," he said simply, his voice quiet. He posture was confident, but underneath was a layer of something else. She shook her head, and he went on, "I'll find her. I promise."

"God, oh, god, please," Alana said, squeezing her hands together until her knuckles were white. "Please find her. Bring her back home."

"I will," he replied, his own voice low and husky, matching hers. "I promise I'll bring her back safe." He paused for a moment there, and seemed to be regarding her. There wouldn't be much to look at, she knew. Sloppy hair. Red eyes. Chalky white skin. She turned away from him, bowing her head. When she heard his footsteps, she lifted her head.

"Rorschach." He turned, and Alana stared straight at him. Her voice was firm, a command almost, "Do what you have to do to get her back. Please."

He nodded, and slipped out the window.

* * *

It took fourteen false starts before he finally got what he was looking for. Fourteen misleads which ended up with people in the hospital. He wasn't normally this rough, but this was a special case. He would find Blair, save her, and bring the light back to her mother's eyes... to see the joyful look, the hugs, the family reunited and the dream preserved. The hollowed eyed look she had given him during their exchange had chilled him; never had he seen such a look of desperation, eyes empty of all hope. He would find her, even if he had to kill every last thug in New York to do so.

The fifteenth man was spared the fingers on his left hand-the ones on his right were broken by the time he talked and gave up the information Rorschach wanted. A dressmaker's in Brooklyn, Grice. The police still had no leads. He could have told them, but it would have wasted time, and enough time had been wasted already. The longer she went unfound, the more likely it was something... no, best not to think about that. The thought of that child alone and frightened was bad enough. If he spared a thought as to what might have been happening to her, he would go mad.

The shop was not hard to find. Dusk was settling as he arrived, and the lights were off. The man kept a couple of dogs in the back yard, fenced off from the street, but Walter went in the front door, like a respectable caller. From there, he looked around. Where would he have hidden her? Someplace quiet, no doubt, where neighbors could not hear any cries or screams for help. The basement seemed the most likely, and as he passed through the dirty shop, he sweltered. It was... warm. He glanced to the stove pipe oven, and held a hand over it. Warm. It'd been used recently, even though it was summer. He opened it up, and rummaged around in the ashes. Inside, he found bits of burned clothing among the ashes, including a sizeable piece of what might have been a little girl's panties.

He didn't panic, nor think the worst off the bat. After all, he knew Alana made most of her little girl's clothing as well as her own, and if he was moving the child to another location, it would be best to dress her in something more ordinary, less identifiable. However, as the dogs snarled and growled outside, playing tug of war over a piece of food, he turned his keen perception to the rest of the house. The next thing he would find was in the kitchen. The butcher's cleavers were universally shiny and sharp, and looked immaculate; another oddity, a contrast to the rest of the filthy building. Closing the cupboards, he drew a finger along the big piece of wood sitting next to the sink. The chopping block had been freshly used; there were fresh grooves chopped into it.

Walter turned those pieces over in his mind as he looked out the window, watching the dogs play tug of war with a bone. Burned clothing. Freshly washed cleavers. Used chopping block. The dogs growled and yipped playfully, the bone going one way, then the other.

Burned clothing. Washed cleavers. Chopping block. Dog bone. There was a connection, but his mind stubbornly refused to see it.

Clothing. Cleavers. Block. Bone. No. _NO._

The world ended.

The realization which hit sent him into freefall, spinning his mind off its axis... Images surfaced in his mind of an innocent child, with her mother and father. Pictures shown. A happy laugh. Alana, so content because of her child. But more than that, she was what a mother _should_ have been, should _always_ be. His mind peeled back, regressing, almost rewinding, as his life flashed before his eyes. Women flashed before him, images of whores offering their love, of Alana and her quiet friendship, of the teachers who had taken pity on him, on the girls who had taunted him... and of his mother. His own... oh, _god,_ his own mother had committed unspeakable things to a young child, until that child, until he, was filled with rage. He could almost remember when he was very small, and treasured the warmth of his mother's pillowy softness. That had been ripped away by her own hand, when she wished aloud he'd never been born.

That, of course _that,_ among other more unsavory memories.

Everything opposite to _that_ built up into his ideal of a family, of what a family _should_ be: the dream, everyone's dream, _what he was fighting for_. The images were a collage inside of him, and he struggled to hold onto them; a small child trying to catch the wind. When his hand touched it, it shattered into pieces. His world eroded beneath his feet. A howling vortex was beyond, a pit of blackness at the core of his being. It meant nothing. All of it... meant _nothing_. There was no _God_, there was no _plan_, no _dream_; _nothing_ that wouldn't eventually crumble. His mind plunged into the vortex. He looked into the eyes of the _true_ face of the world... and it gazed back at him. The only thing he knew, the only thing there was... was evil. And evil must be punished.

Walter picked up the nearest cleaver and stepped outside. The shock along his arm nearly made him let go of the instrument, and the warm blood splashed on his jacket. He closed his eyes, a muffled voice from behind the mask crying out, "_Mother_."

And then there was only Rorschach.

* * *

When Rorschach offered her the coffee can full of ashes, the woman screamed. She clawed at him, and when he pushed her away roughly, she tore at her hair, wailing. The father ran in, hearing his wife's screams. He looked at Rorschach, and was no fool. The bone sticking absurdly out of the can was all the explanation he needed to see what had happened. He stepped inbetween his weeping wife and the vigilante, taking the can from him, and then putting an arm around his wife, trying to comfort her as best he could. When her screams had subsided, the husband guided her to the table, and sat her down in a chair before turning to Rorschach.

"How?"

Rorschach explained, and the father paled, hands tightening around the can of ashes, which was once his daughter.

"Did he get away?" The lust for vengeance shone in the father's eyes.

Rorschach told him he did not. Told him how it happened.

"Good." The father helped the wailing mother up, looking to Rorschach, his jaw set. "_Good_," he said again, savagely, the fierce scowl on his face mirroring the beast's.

* * *

EPILOGUE:

Walter hated it in Minnesota. The kids all called him 'Wal-Eye', and taunted him, saying that his mother was crazy. They didn't understand _anything_. His family had moved to Minnesota a couple years after he was born because his dad couldn't help his mom all the time. She wasn't crazy; she was sad. A lot. That's what his dad said anyway. She spent some time away in a hospital after his sister died because she was sad, but then she got better.

Some days were better than others. Most of the time, his mom just looked real tired, like she didn't sleep well. She loved him though-sometimes too much because she was such a worry-wart, always making sure she walked him to and from school, and never let him go anywhere without her or his dad around. He was nine. He could go to the park by himself! Sometimes, she baked cookies just for him. His dad teased she would make them both fat, and then they'd kiss, and things were good.

Other days, she sat in her chair by the window making dresses. Little girl dresses. Then she'd cry. He hated it when that happened, because she'd hardly see him at all. Then, his dad would have her take some pills, and she'd get really tired and go to sleep.

Today, she'd been really upset because of something in the paper. His dad had come in from the bathroom, half done shaving, and asked why. She didn't say anything, until his dad looked at the paper.

"Rorschach caught!" the headline said. Even here, Walter knew who Rorschach was. And Nite Owl. And most of all Dr. Manhattan. He wished they still lived in New York, so he could meet them, although Nite Owl wasn't a hero anymore. The old pictures he saw in his mother's scrapbook was enough to make him wish Nite Owl still was... what a cool ship that was!

Whatever it was in the paper, that set his dad off too. "Did you know?" he demanded. When she turned away, he had grabbed her arm, and Walter had tensed while eating his cereal. Robert down the street said sometimes his dad drank too much and hit his mom. Walter had said that was a lie, because dads don't hit moms, but now it seemed he was watching it unfold before his eyes. "Did you know?"

"I knew," his mom replied. "It was the mask. I didn't know until months after, but I remembered the mask."

"And you named our son after that... that..." and it was at this point his dad looked up, seeing Walter sitting there. "Go to your room."

He got up and went up the stairs to his room. Throwing himself down on the bed, he tried to absorb what he had heard. His mom had known Rorschach? Too cool! He didn't see why his dad got upset over it. And he was named after a super hero...and not just a superhero, but one of the most famous superheroes _ever_. He wished he could be a hero like that; anything was better than helping his cousins milk cows, or taking out the trash. Walter kicked his feet on the bed, chewing his lip. He wished he knew why his dad was upset over his _name_.

It wasn't like it was the end of the world.

* * *

Author's Note: More of a blog this time, in struggling with this piece. As I said before, I do have an outline. The problem is that it doesn't all fit as neatly as the first two parts did. I'm still leery about the pack of stories on the net popping up about Rorschach and an OC. Even though yes, they connected briefly and still remained friendly, I'm trying to show how much they moved on with their own lives and out of each other's until the kidnapping brought them together again. But not really. It's hard... I mean, this is the _fucking part where Rorschach loses it_. The _theory_ of the story is pretty strong. I just think I'm woefully underequipped to get the point across. The best thing to do is to get the first draft done and tighten it up from there, clipping and adding as necessary, trying to make the balanced whole, but... fuck. Woefully underequipped to even touch the Grice scene. Problem is, I can't cheat on this and not show it. It's the whole point of the fucking piece. ARGH.

Part of it is that the "American family" is an ideal for Rorschach/Walter. I mean, what's the point in fighting crime if he thinks everyone is disgusting and terrible? He doesn't. He can't. Otherwise, the whole character would just be a psychopath without any morals. He does have 'em. It's black and white, but still has them. Alana and her family have to represent that ideal, otherwise the story doesn't work. Still can't see an OC/Rorschach pairing. I've often wondered if he wasn't sexually abused by his mother as well... it just doesn't fit. I can see Nite Owl/Rorschach, and I'm thinking of adding a chapter where Rorschach finds out Dan got it on with the Twilight Lady. Lol. How much to build up? Where are the parts that need to be built up in relation to this piece? The point is that at first, life was sucky and horrible. There wasn't an out. Then, life didn't suck. The dream was attainable. The third section I want to show the little cracks in the dream then shatter it completely, sort of like a dam bursting (damn I use that analogy a lot).

The other problem is I'm not a parent. God, I'd have no idea what it would be like to lose a child, especially your only child. Should I play up the drama and have her be incapable of having another? It's a valid device, much as I hate to resort to cheap tricks like that. Yet symbols are important too. Like trading your sword for a plowshare, Alana traded her knife for her child. Also hate spending so much time on something that's not canon, a character who isn't. Yet, again, it's the point of it, and since I started, I'm going to finish it. I'm so jaded on fanfic it's like ANY OC is a Sue or a self-insert. I know it's not the case here, but that instinct still remains. The question of anyone doing justice with an OC fic seems outrageous there's so much bad stuff on there. I know I should stop reading the other Watchmen fics at this time, but at the same time it's like a measurement, checking for any obvious mistakes. Still don't like the second chapter as much as the first. Actually, I wish I could go back and add stuff, but again, my problem is verbosity. It's hard to keep things cut down to just what the story needs and no more.

Hee. The reviews help. The detailed reviews help a LOT in diffusing some of those arguments in my head. Also, thinking this is getting too long, and I should split it into four parts instead. ~3/15/09

Side note: I can tell where I had to spend the most time editing. Mirror scene, for example. That had four or five rewrites. Those parts are the tightest, and have gotten the most notice, I think. ~3/16/09

Kept getting interrupted at work while I was trying to write. I shouldn't really complain as I have a job where I *can* write at, unless something demands my immediate attention, but oh well. Maybe tonight at home. ~3/17/09

Rain the Revenant's review made me LOL. Also, it was gratifying to see that someone picked up on the parallel. It was always meant to be a parallel like that. A friend of mine described it as a double helix-Walter and Alana being the two threads winding around the events/plot. Something like that. Finished first draft and editing now. ~3/17/09

OMFG did I turn this the totally wrong direction? NUR, of COURSE she'd be a mother-substitute. Too late to pull the analogy out of my ass? ~3/18/09

Last notes: I left my thought processes in this so y'all could see how difficult it was. This one definitely gave me the most trouble... how far, what should I show, how do I build it up, and lastly, how do I end it? I'm a bit leery about the last part, but I like it so much because we KNOW how Rorschach's story ended; we don't know how Alana's did, and... well, if you enjoyed her throughout the rest of the story, she deserves a proper ending too. I couldn't slip back into her POV anymore though; too exhausting.

Thank you for all the kind reviews. I still hate Rorschach x OC stories. I feel hypocritical writing this one, but as I noted before, it demanded to be written. I tried to do justice to the canon, but I felt underequipped. However... overall, I'd say this has been a success. While I still have a hard time seeing Rorschach with anyone, if it WAS done, I think it'd be like this. I think I've learned a lot about fanfiction too, the why's of it, and that's all to the good. Maybe I won't be so hypercritical of other people's stories (*kaffkaffyeahrightkaffkaff*). Regardless, I hope you enjoyed my version of the FOC story, and I thank you again, deeply and heartfelt, for reading.

Cheers.

Post Author's Note: I realized I never said where I got the idea from, nor the name of the piece. When Rorschach was being interviewed by the prison psychologist, he said that days dragged by in the Roche case, and he thought of the small child alone and abused, frightened, and didn't like it. He investigated it for personal reasons. This story was meant to explore what those two words meant. Was it just because he was abused? Except, other than the fact of the abuse, the pattern didn't fit. It was a stranger doing it, not a parental figure. So, why would this case above all others be personal to him? Again, this is just my explanation.


End file.
